


In the Crosshairs

by Rumpabumbum



Series: Crosshairs [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Crime, Deception, Kidnapping, Lies, Mafias, Multi, Runaway, Smut, Some angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2018-08-21 17:56:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 39
Words: 131,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8255059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rumpabumbum/pseuds/Rumpabumbum
Summary: Margaery is about to land the biggest story to ever grace the pages of The King's Courrier when she discovers the brewing mafia war between the powerful Lannister Mafia and the "dead" Stark Mafia. The more involved she gets, however, the more dangerous it becomes for herself and her loved ones.





	1. Girl's Night

                                                                                            _**One Year Ago**_

Margaery loathes Girls Night. At least tonight she does.

                She should be sifting through potential sources for her assignment on Barristan Selmy’s abrupt dismissal from the police force, not playing wing woman for Ygritte.

                She adjusts her leather jacket in the bathroom mirror as Ygritte finishes applying eye-liner at the sink next to her. As far as bar bathrooms go, this isn’t the worst one she has ever been in.

                “When do ya think the bouncer gets off?” asks Ygritte. She tosses her wild mane of fire back.

                Margaery quirks an eyebrow. “The fifty year old with grey hair and that little mustache?”

                “No!” Ygritte yells, nearly flinging liquid eye-liner onto Margaery’s jacket from the brush which she still held. “The brooding cutie with curly hair and piercing eyes.”

                Margaery nods and faces the mirror, checking her appearance once more. “Hopefully soon. The sooner you find your conquest, the sooner I can go home.”

                “Loosen up, Tyrell. What you need is a good hard bang,” Ygritte smirks. “That blond with stripper heels was checking you out. She’d be easy.”

                Margaery rolls her eyes and walks to the door. “What I need is to finish this story so I can eat next week. Besides, you know I don’t do blondes.” She pushes open the door and holds it for her friend.

                Ygritte stops in the doorway. “Perhaps you should expand your dating pool a bit. Might be surprised by what you find.” She winks, reentering the club.

                An hour later, Margaery sits at the bar watching Ygritte charm the flustered bouncer. Despite the dim lighting, she sees the crimson flush spreading across the man’s cheeks as Ygritte brushes her fingers down his chest. The man never stood a chance.

                Margaery sips her coke. When she had asked the bartender for a coke, he pulled out the soda and a bottle of rum. She quickly corrected him, which earned her a few judgmental looks. She didn’t care. Ygritte had at least five drinks, which meant someone needed to be the designated driver. Besides, Margaery isn’t a big fan of drinking. Not when she’s on the brink of her first big story.

                She turns at the tapping on her shoulder. Ygritte looks giddy as she clings to the bouncer’s arm, unusual for the fiery red head. She’s clearly out drunk her limit. Margaery would have pegged her for a bit higher. “This is Jon!” she yells, even though the music is much quieter off the dance floor.

                Margaery smiles and sticks out her hand. “Hello Jon. I’m Margaery, Ygritte’s roommate.”

                “You deal with this daily?” he asks, stunned. “How?”

                Margaery laughs. “She’s really much better sober.”

                “Shut up!” says Ygritte and she punches Jon’s shoulder, making him wince. “Come back to our table, Marge!”

                Margaery sighs and pulls her phone out of her purse to check the time. It’s past midnight. “I should get going actually.”

                “But Margaery, you’re my ride! I don’t have my wallet!” groans Ygritte.

                Margaery crosses her arms over her chest. “I’m giving you fifteen minutes. If you’re not done getting Mr. Dark and Broody’s number by then, I’m leaving you.”

                Jon blushes again. He escorts both girls back the VIP section of the bar. “I have to go back on shift in fifteen anyway,” he says.

                Ygritte plops down onto the couch and pulls Jon with her. “Good. That means you have fifteen minutes for this.” She grasps Jon’s cheeks and pulls him toward her for a voracious kiss.

                Margaery looks around the room. There’s two other people sitting on another couch, huddling close in conversation and giggling. Another bouncer secures the room. He’s less formidable in size than Jon, but looks less friendly as well. On the couch in the corner sits a dark brunette woman, turned away from her. Margaery decides to sit on that couch, not wanting to worry about Ygritte getting too frisky with Jon.

She pulls out her phone again, and types a quick note for how to frame the Selmy story.  Captain Selmy was the most senior of the police force, as well as the lone pinnacle of morality on a squad flooding with scandal. Jaime Lannister, son of ex-crime boss Tywin Lannister, was rumored to be the Captain’s replacement. It was an angle impossible to ignore.

Margaery finishes jotting in her ideas and tucked her phone away. Ten more minutes. She looks, startled to find the brunette woman watching her. She’s gorgeous. Piercing blue eyes, high cheek bones, narrow nose, tall frame, pale skin contrasting with the deep blue of her dress. Margaery adjusts her hair behind her ear.

“Sorry, were you saving this seat for someone?” she asked.

                The woman shakes her head. “I’m just, curious I suppose,” she said.

                “Curious?” repeats Margaery.

                The woman nods and scoots closer. “You see, I’m trying to figure out how a beautiful woman like yourself winds up texting alone on her phone on a Friday night.”

                Margaery shrugs. “I’d be asleep alone in my bed if Ygritte would ever finish up with her conquest of the night.” She glances back to Ygritte, who is sitting on Jon’s lap, practically grinding herself against him.

                When Margaery looks back, the brunette woman is a breath away from her face. Margaery’s eyes widen. She smells an overwhelming amount of alcohol, tequila she believes, on the woman's breath. “Such a shame. I don’t think you’re the kind of woman who should sleep alone.”

                Margaery watches as the woman licks her lips. Damnit she’s beautiful and Margaery wants her. The woman is clearly drunk, however. Her eyes are almost glazed over, her words slur subtly. It would be wrong to act on her urges. So Margaery gently pushes herself away.

                The woman follows her and presses herself against Margaery, pressing her lips against Margaery. She can definitely taste tequila, and perhaps a bit of whiskey as well. Not a good mix.

                Still, the feel of the woman’s soft lips against her own is intoxicating and Margaery kisses back. She doesn’t protest as the woman slips her hands inside Margaery’s jacket and around her waist. But when the woman attempts to crawl into her lap, Margaery remembers herself.

                She pulls away and nudges the woman off. “Sorry, I really need to go.” She gets up and refuses to look back at the brunette, as she goes to retrieve Ygritte and save the poor bouncer from being eaten alive. Literally, apparently, because Ygritte is leaving massive hickeys down his neck.

                Margaery tugs on Ygritte’s shoulder, but Ygritte merely shrugs her off.

                “Fine. Sleep here tonight,” Margaery says and turns to walk away.

                “Wait!” calls out Ygritte. “What’s your number?” she purrs in Jon’s ear.

                “Uh, uhm,” stutter Jon. He looks back at the brunette, who walks toward Margaery, then whispers in Ygritte’s ear.

                The woman stands next to Margaery and says, “I’m sorry if I startled you back there. I don’t normally come on so strong.”

                “No, it’s fine,” says Margaery. Ygritte is taking much too long and Margaery doesn’t want this conversation.

                The woman looks back to the bouncer before saying, “I think I’ve had a drink too many. Would you mind driving me home as well?”

                Margaery opens her mouth, a polite decline ready on her tongue, when Jon interrupts. “Alayne, you know that’s not a good idea.”

                Alayne glares over her shoulder at Jon. “I can do as I please. I wasn’t asking you.”

                Margaery shoves her hand into her back pocket. All she wants is to be home. “He’s probably right. It’s so late, and I don’t know where you live, and if you’re drunk, then you’re hardly in a state to give me directions.”

                A pout forms on Alayne’s lips, then Ygritte interjects, “Ah, she can stay at our place for tonight then. You wouldn’t mind sleeping on a sofa, would you?”

                Much to Margaery’s chagrin, Alayne shakes her head. “No, that’s fine.”

                Margaery scans Alayne from head to toe, all 5”9’ of her. It’s a boldface lie.

                “Alayne…” starts Jon as he and Ygritte get up, Ygritte swaying a little from her new position.

                Jon moves closer to Alayne, folding his arms across his chest like a scolding parent. Alayne, to her credit, stands tall. Without Jon next to her, Ygritte looks as though she’s going to face plant into the couch, so Margaery rushes to her side and holds her up. As Jon and Alayne argue, Margaery whispers, “What the hell are you doing?”

                Ygritte grins next to her. “Getting you that lay that you desperately need.”

                Margaery rolls her eyes and returns her attention back to the argument. Alayne has her arms crossed in front of her now and stands inches from Jon’s face, which is contorted into a tight grimace. “I can do as I fucking well please, and if that means I go home with…” Alayne looks at Margaery with a silent question in her eyes.

                “Margaery,” says Margaery.

                Alayne smiles and turns back to Jon, her stern irritation back quickly, “If that means I go home with Margaery and do gods know what, then what’s it to you?”

                Jon grabs Alayne’s wrist. “You know perfectly well why it matters.”

                He stares at Margaery for a moment, then back to Alayne. He releases her wrist and rubs his forehead. “Fuck, Alayne.”

                He leans in and whispers in her ear. Margaery can’t help the foreboding feeling in her gut. Something’s not right about the whole night. There’s something in the way that Jon speaks to Alayne and in Alayne’s defiance that Margaery finds unsettling.

                Alayne frowns at Jon, but turns back to Margaery. She smirks slyly as she brushes Margaery’s shoulder, the one that Ygritte is not currently leaning on. “So what do you say? Take me home?”

                Margaery should say no. It’s really not that hard. But she’s curious at heart and has been ingrained to find the truth in anything she questions. So she nods, “As long as you can help get this to the car,” she nudges Ygritte, who may or may not have fallen asleep standing up.

                “I can get that,” says Jon. He comes over and scoops up Ygritte, clearly expecting her to be lighter than she is. Still he leads the way out of the VIP room and toward the front exit. Margaery gets in front and opens the door for Jon. Where’s Alayne gone? Before Margaery asks, Alayne struts forward with a bottle of vodka. Her skin tight dress hugs her thighs, curving just right with every step the woman takes. Heat rises up Margaery’s back. The angle from behind is just as tantalizing when Alayne walks through the door.

                “Where to?” asks Jon.

                “This way,” says Margaery. She leads them to her red Maserati. “Just put her in the back,” she says and opens the door for Jon. He slides her in.

                Alayne stands by the passenger door, eager to get in. Jon takes another look at her. “Be careful, okay.” He says. Alayne rolls her eyes and takes a drink of vodka.

                She opens the door and gets in.

                Jon steps toward Margaery. “Please take care of her,” he pleads. Margaery nods.

                Jon glances back one last time before heading back inside. Margaery walks around her car and gets in, turning the engine and pulling out.

                After a moment of silence, Margaery asks. “What were you doing at the bar tonight?”

                For some reason the question seems to throw Alayne for a loop. She fiddles with the vodka bottle for a moment. “I own it. Well, my business partner and I do. He tells me it’s good to watch over your investments first hand. So that’s what I was doing.”

                Margaery glances to her then back to the road. Alayne looks incredibly young to own a bar. “How old are you?”

                “23,” she replies.

                “You must have some business partner,” mutters Margaery. She turns the wheel right to head down Crown Avenue. She steps on the gas a little, no police in sight.

                “I do. Petyr Baelish,” Alayne says.

                “Ah,” acknowledges Margaery. She once interviewed Baelish for a local restaurant opening. The guy was creepy, but fascinating. She’d love to get another chance to talk to him, because a man like that must have some stories. “And what about the blushing teddy bear back there?”

                She gradually slows to a stop at the red and turns to Alayne. She smiles softly to herself, but she looks sad. The reflection of the moonlight off of her pale cheeks reveals the missing description that Margaery has been searching for with the woman all night: tragic. It’s obvious too from the glint in her eye.

                “Jon’s an old friend. I…hired him shortly after Baelish gave me the reigns to the bar. He runs a tight ship with security,” Alayne says, but her mind is somewhere far away. When Margaery looks away, the light turns green and she steps on the gas. It brings Alayne back to the present and she eyes Margaery.

                Alayne slips into seductress mode again and gently strokes her fingers across Margaery’s hand on the gear shift. “What about you? A beautiful woman such as yourself, single in a bar? What’s the story there?”

                Margaery chuckles, eyes trained on the road and definitely not on the way Alayne trails her fingers up Margaery’s arm. “The story is Margaery Tyrell got sucked into Girl’s Night yet again when she should have been working.”

                The little hairs on Margaery’s neck spike up as she feels Alayne’s breath huff against it. “You sound like you work too hard. You should relax a little.”

                Margaery stops the car abruptly in the apartment parking lot. Between the alcohol Alayne has been drinking and sudden the shifts in her demeanor, Margaery knows this is a bad idea. Oh, but how she wants it.

                She parks the car and unbuckles, then looks back at Ygritte, sprawled across the back seat with hair in her mouth. “Do you think you can help me get her up?” she asks Alayne, who is now centimeters from her. Her lips are parted slightly and her eyes are wide and she is certainly still drunk. Margaery’s stomach flips, but she maintains her composure.

                Alayne begrudgingly nods and slowly gets out of the car. Margaery goes around and opens the back door. “Come on, Ygritte,” she grunts, dragging the red-head out by her arms.

                “Ten mere meniss mum,” she grumbles.

                “You better stand up you twat or I’m leaving you in the bushes,” Margaery says.

                Ygritte groans, but cooperates enough for Margaery to get one of her arms over her shoulder. Alayne supports Ygritte’s other side, but stumbles in her heels from the other woman’s weight.

                “Thank the seven we’re not upstairs,” says Margaery. They drag Ygritte to the apartment building, stopping halfway there to let Alayne take off her shoes. They get inside and make it to Ygritte’s room. Margaery pulls her on her own the rest of the way to her bed and drops her. Ygritte, of course, doesn’t even flinch.

                She pants and adjusts her favorite leather jacket, making sure her friend hasn’t drooled on it. She quietly shuts the door as she leaves, then finds herself in Alayne’s arms. The woman presses her back against Ygritte’s door and attacks her lips.

                Margaery’s initial shock gives way to pleasure quickly. The woman slips her tongue skillfully against Margaery lips, and Margaery gladly opens her mouth to entwine their tongues. She tastes deliciously of vodka. Alayne’s hands force Margaery’s jacket down her shoulders and Margaery sheds her beloved leather onto the floor.

                She takes control of the kiss, separating their tongues and dragging her teeth across Alayne’s bottom lip. Alayne whimpers and grabs Margaery’s ass as Margaery tangles her fingers into Alayne’s luscious hair. Alayne breaks the kiss and bends down to Margaery’s neck. She lightly sucks and Margaery moans.

                She clenches her eyes tight and remembers the wistful look Alayne wore in the car, the glint of sadness that never left her eye. This isn’t right. It feels so damn good but it isn’t right. With all her conviction, Margaery gently pushes a very confused and lustful Alayne off of her.

                “I can’t do this,” she whispers, and heads back to the living room.

                Behind her she can hear Alayne panting and following. “Why not?” she asks.

                Margaery turns around. As angry as she sounds, Alayne only looks sullen and confused.

Margaery holds out her hand and takes Alayne’s, guiding her to the couch and deftly sitting her down and sits next to her. Several reasons pop into her head: she just met the woman and knows nothing about her, she has to work tomorrow, she doesn’t want to hurt Alayne. She goes for the simplest explanation.

“Sweetling, you're drunk. You don’t have full capacity over your desires,” Margaery says.

Alayne draws back. “I’m not drunk. I know exactly what I want, so just give it to me.” She doesn’t meet Margaery’s eyes.

Margaery reaches out and touches Alayne’s chin, directing her eyes to make eye contact. “Alayne, I can’t. Not right now. You’re very attractive and under other circumstances I would darling, believe me. But you’ve had several hard drinks tonight and I hardly know you. I don’t want to do anything that you’ll regret come sunrise.”

Alayne jerks her head away. Tears brim around her eyelids. Guilt washes over Margaery, but she stands firm. She can’t take advantage of this woman.

“You can sleep on my bed, if you like,” suggests Margaery. “And I have some clothes you can sleep in as well.”

Margaery sighs and goes to her room to find usable clothes. She returns several minutes later with some shorts and an over-sized t-shirt. She finds Alayne glaring at the coffee table. Holding out the clothes, she comes over. “Here. The shirt is my brother’s, but I don’t think he’ll mind you borrowing it.”

Alayne glares at the clothes then at Margaery. Margaery smiles down kindly and Alayne’s stern expression softens. She doesn’t say anything but takes the clothes and goes to the bathroom. When she shuts the door, Margaery collapses onto the couch and stifles a groan. The desire for sleep washes over her as she waits for Alayne to emerge. Closing her eyes for just a moment couldn’t hurt.

The next time Margaery opens her eyes, the lights are out. Someone was cooking, though. She sits up and stretches, then groans, realizing where she slept. Her neck aches from the odd position she fell asleep in. Eggs, bacon and waffles. That’s what she smells. No way Ygritte was up this early.

Margaery walks into the kitchen and yawns. The brunette from the night before…Alayne?... flips eggs and hums lightly. At the sound of Margaery’s yawn, she spins around and smiles brightly. She seems like a whole new woman, no trace of whatever grief had plagued her last night, no vixen-like lust in her body language.

“Good morning,” she says. She removes the skillet from the stove and scrapes the eggs onto three plates.

“Morning?” says Margaery. She goes to the fridge and gets out the orange juice. “You didn’t have to cook anything. Unless, of course that’s all for you.”

The woman smiles and shakes her head. “I wanted to. As a thank you, for last night.” She takes the waffles out of the waffle maker and sets them on a separate plate while Margaery pours her juice into a glass.

When she speaks again, she’s talking to the food. “I’m not usually like that, you know.” The captivating gleam from the previous night returns and enthralls Margaery once more. “It’s just… things have been rough lately and I wanted to feel in control. I wanted to be someone else for a night. Then you came along and…”

Margaery lightly touches the girl's cheek, drawing her attention up. She looks startled, but Margaery smiles kindly. “It’s okay. You don’t need to justify yourself to me.”

She helps Alayne carry the plates and syrup to the table, leaving Ygritte’s in the fridge for later.

“So last night wasn’t the real Alayne?” asks Margaery.

Alayne sits down. “No, not really. I mean, there were pieces of the real Alayne… Stone whom you met. But not all of me.”

Margaery picks up her fork and pierces an egg. “Perhaps I could meet her sometime. Over dinner one night this week?”

Margaery smirks at the wide grin that spreads across Alayne’s face. “Yes. Absolutely, yes.”


	2. A New Lead

                                                                                               _**Present**_ **_Day_**

 

As she enters the police station, Margaery flips up her sunglasses. The desk clerk, Missandei, doesn’t bother looking up from her paperwork. “Good morning, Ms. Tyrell.”

               Margaery sets down her coffee on the desk. “Morning, Missandei. Any great arrests over night?” she asks.

               Missandei pulls out a thick black binder labeled “Reports” and sits it in front of Margaery. “Afraid not. Unless you consider speeding tickets and a DUI groundbreaking.”

               Margaery flips through the police reports. Missandei’s right, these are duller than the golf tournament she covered in high school. She closes the binder and slides it back to Missandei. “Well, that frees me up for more urgent matters.”

               “Such as?” asks Missandei sweetly smiling.

               Margaery smirks and flips down her sunglasses, then picks up her coffee. “Sorry, darling, it’s confidential. Perhaps you’ll read it one day.”

               Missandei giggles and shakes her head, returning to her paper work. “See you tomorrow Ms. Tyrell.”

               Once out the door, Margaery runs back to her car. She’s late and can only pray she still beats Renly to the office. After a short drive through untypically light King’s Landing traffic, Margaery pulls into the parking lot outside the offices of _The King’s Courier._

               It was still a whirlwind to Margaery. Her story on Barristan Selmy uncovered proof that the Lannister Mafia was still operating. Although she never found definitive proof that Jaime Lannister was directly involved, she located tapes revealing that Kevin Lannister and Lancel Lannister plotted to use Jaime’s position to sell drugs throughout King’s Landing. Those tapes led to an interview with Sandor Clegane alleging he was a hit man for the Lannisters. That interview, of course, had gone anonymous, but the ramifications were powerful, leading to the arrest of three Lannisters and two Freys. Gregor Clegane, the Mountain as he was known to the drug pushers Margaery met, disappeared after his brother’s interview. He was the most wanted man in Westeros right now.

               Despite her protests, _The King’s Courier_ insisted on using a pseudonym for Margaery’s work for her safety. Margaery wanted the world to know that she, not Rose Heller, was the one who outed the largest crime organization in Westeros. How else would she get her name out as a freelancer. After Margaery refused to allow publishing unless they used her name, the paper struck a deal with her. Her work on the series of articles dubbed _The Lion’s Den_ would remain anonymous, but the paper extended her an offer to join their staff full time. Margaery jumped at the chance. Job security was rare in her line of work, and her role on the crime beat kept her close yet not too close.

               Margaery races up the stairs to her and Renly’s office, and sighs as she drops into her chair. She beat him. Forty straight days of beating Renly to work. Loras owes her twenty bucks for that. She takes off her jacket and sips the last of her coffee, then scans the schedule for today.

               “Morning Margaery,” says Renly as he comes in. “Any interesting reports over night?”

               “Nope. Some tickets, a DUI, prank call. Mundane,” says Margaery. She gulps the last of her now cold coffee and tosses the cup in the trash.

               “I did some research on Cersei,” Renly removes his jacket and sits at his desk. Margaery’s ears perk. “She and Robert had some massive fights before he died. Police even arrested her once for domestic violence. Charges were dropped, but Robert had some nasty scars.”

               Renly pulls a file out of his bag and lays it out on his desk. Margaery gets up, walks over, and looks through it. Renly’s right, the pictures of the scars on Robert’s arm and cheek look ghastly. Margaery pulls out the document on Cersei and Robert’s tax filings. It doesn’t show the same discrepancies that the earlier document had. “As fascinating as these pictures are, nothing came of those charges. Which means it might as well have not happened at all,” she says.

               “The court house has more, Marge. This was what I managed to copy last night.”

               Margaery sits back at her own desk and glances through the day’s assignment. “Mormont wants an interview with one of the new rookies at the station and he wants a follow-up on the Umber trial. Take your pick.”

One thing Margaery misses about freelancing is the freedom in her assignments. They waste her time. Each moment she spends writing about who the new judges were and about how the station bought new radios was a moment she could have spent coming closer to taking down Cersei.

               Margaery isn’t sure when the Lannister mafia became an obsession. It started with the Selmy case and morphed into something greater as she saw the sheer devastation the mob wrought. Families destroyed by drugs, kidnappings resulting in murder, fake investments that devastated the impoverished of the city. Somewhere along the line, it stopped being just a story to Margaery.

               “I’ll do the rookie interview,” says Renly. He smirks, “Perhaps your brother will give me a ride along.”

               Margaery rolls her eyes. “Yes, it will be a dream come true for you won’t it? The two bumbling idiots fighting crime, writing articles and singing broadway tunes.”

               Renly gathers the files back into the folder and stuffs them away. “You’re just jealous you didn’t call dibs on him first. While you’re sitting here trying to decipher Judge Pycelle’s words in this dank office, I’ll be playing with handcuffs and hitting up drive thrus with my boyfriend.”

               The mention of handcuffs sends Margaery’s mind back to the previous weekend. Her girlfriend’s hands bound together above her head, a teasing gleam in her eye. She blinks away the image. Now’s not the time for that.

               As Margaery begins searching for Judge Pycelle’s  number, Renly waves and leaves.

               Three hours, three phone calls and one draft later, she sends her article to senior editor, Jorah Mormont. Knowing the piece is flawless, she packs her stuff and puts back on her jacket. She breathes in deep through her nose and smells the lingering scent of Alayne. She barely manages to stifle the hum in her throat.        

               As she drives to the courthouse, Margaery allows her mind to wander to her girlfriend. The last ten months with her had made Margaery happier than she’d felt in years. Alayne was fascinating. She liked knitting and romantic comedies, hated gushy pop songs and cats, and loved rainstorms and the Bronte sisters.

               And Margaery. She loved Margaery. That’s what she said three days ago. Alayne and Margaery were going to go to a concert when Alayne had gotten an urgent business call. A bar fight broke out and the police had come. “I’ll be right back,”she said. So Margaery waited. And waited. She eventually pulled out Alayne’s laptop and wrote a rough draft of the next day’s article. At midnight Margaery gave up and went back to Alayne’s room to sleep. Shortly afterward, Alayne came back. Believing Margaery to be asleep, she stripped down and cuddled against her. “I love you Margaery. So, so much.”

               The only people Margaery had ever said those words to were her grandmother, Loras, and Ygritte once after she drove Margaery back from getting her wisdom teeth pulled. She wasn’t sure what she felt for Alayne. She certainly cared deeply for the woman and enjoyed her company, and gods the things she could do with her fingers… But love was emotion, and Margaery never trusted emotion.

               At the courthouse, Margaery asks for every public record they have on Cersei Lannister. The clerk retrieves her request while she fills out the forms. A few minutes later, she’s drowning in documents. She skims paper after paper: tax returns, land arbitrations, co-signings, a marriage certificate. It all means nothing until she finds a minor law suit filed by Cersei against Eddard Stark. The case was dismissed a week before Eddard’s death.

               In her research of the Lannister Mafia, Margaery learned a great deal about the other large mafias of Westeros. The Starks had controlled Winterfell and had been the Lannister’s greatest ally before they became bitter enemies. The two competed for money and power in nearly every industry. While the Lannister’s bribed and extorted their way to power, the Starks used fear and respect to make money.

               The Stark mafia died along with Eddard. The Stark home of Winterfell had burnt down, killing Eddard his wife, sons and daughters. The fire was so intense that neither of his daughters’ bodies could be recovered. That had been ten years ago.

               Suddenly the stories link together in Margaery’s mind. With their rivals burnt to ashes, the Lannisters stopped operating openly. They had no competition; they could easily maintain their power in privacy. The fire was ruled an accident, but never fully investigated. Cersei knew what would happen; she was involved somehow. Margaery just needs to prove it.

               She copies the file and returns the originals back to the clerk. Her mind whirs with ideas. She needs to find some Northern sources, people who knew the Starks. There may also be disregarded evidence in the initial police report. Margaery writes down her thoughts in her notebook and leaves as the sun sets.

               She’s back at her apartment before the sun finishes its descent over the horizon. The apartment is a mess when she walks in. Clothes cover the floor, Jon’s from the look of it. They must be arguing again. This happened at least once a month after he moved in. Ygritte refuses to have any reminders of his existence in her room when she’s angry with him, which sucks for Jon because that’s his room too.

               The guttural moan coming from Ygritte’s room, however, indicates that Margaery’s first inclination may have been wrong. It’s an eternal pendulum with those two: fight, sex, fight, sex.

               She shakes her head and rummages through the fridge for food. She’s microwaving left over chicken when a loud scream she knows belongs to Jon echoes through the apartment, signaling the end of their dalliance. Thank the seven.

               Moments later, Ygritte emerges from her room, nearly skipping in her tank top and underwear. “Hello, my fun-filled flower,” she sighs, grabbing a beer from the fridge.

               “Sounds like you were the one having fun,” says Margaery.

               Ygritte smirks and opens the beer and takes a gulp. “It was fun after I finished wielding the punishment.”

               Jon comes out of the room next, wearing only his pants. He flushes when he sees Margaery and realizes what she likely heard, but comes over anyway. “Hey Marge,” he glares at Ygritte. “That was the last one Ygritte! I called dibs on it!”

               He snatches for the bottle. Ygritte holds the bottle just beyond his reach. “You took too long. If you’re a good boy, I’ll make it up to you, though.”

               Jon grabs for the bottle again and Ygritte tilts the bottle down to keep it away from him. Some beer spills out and lands in Margaery’s bag. Margaery leaps up, “Damnit guys, stop acting like fucking six year olds!” She pulls out the folder. The beer landed on the outside of the protective folder, thankfully keeping the copied documents dry. Margaery takes the documents out of the folder before the alcohol can seep through.

               “Gods, I am so sorry Margaery. Really didn’t mean to, honest,” says Jon. He comes over with a dish towel and dabs off the folder.

               “It’s fine. No harm," Margaery sighs, "I just wish you two would be more adult, at least around each other."

               “And I wish I could I could be Queen of the Andals, but some things just won’t happen,” says Ygritte as she sits next to Margaery. She picks up the top file. “Aw, Margaery, you need to drop this. Haven’t you messed with those poor Lannisters enough?”

               Margaery plucks the paper out of Ygritte’s hands. “It’s not about the Lannisters, it’s about the story. Cersei has a story, and I can crack it.”

               Jon reads the paper over her shoulder. “Why are you interested in Eddard Stark?”

               Margaery groans. She almost wishes they would go back to fucking and let her think in peace. “I’m not. Just stay out of it, alright. If anything comes of this, you’ll read about it in the _Courier._ ”

               “You know I can’t stay out of it. What if something happens to you? Like what if they put a hit out on you? Who will do my laundry then?” Ygritte throws her arm around Margaery and blinks up with mock concern.

               “Train your teddy bear to do it. You already have him on his knees for you,”Margaery smirks at Jon, who bites his cheek to hold back the blush.

After a moment he looks up and says, “Seriously Margaery. Don’t play games with the Lannisters. You know what they do when they feel threatened. You don’t want to end up like Eddard Stark.”

Margaery thinks it over for a moment. “If I end up like Eddard Stark, I would hope that there was a reporter like me who had the brass to cover it. Because that will be one hell of a story.”

               Jon breathes deep and presses his hand against his face. “If Alayne heard you talking like that…”

               Ygritte snickers. “She’d put you on permanent body guard duty. Margaery, you wouldn’t be able to piss without Jon being in the room. That or she’d toss you into a padded cell.”

               Margaery sighs and carefully puts the documents back into her bag. She’ll find a new folder for them later. “Alayne wouldn’t go that far. I think she’s starting to understand that there’s no more danger in my job than in working as a sales clerk.”

               Ygritte scoffs. “Yeah, interviewing stone cold criminals with murder records is exactly like selling groceries to Nan.”

               “You know what I mean,” Margaery says. She gets up and moves to the couch. “It’s just as easy for you to get held up at gunpoint running the cashier at Wallard’s as it is for me to die from my work.”

               Ygritte sits next to Margaery and looks at her earnestly. “Really though. You’ve been writing about the Lannister pups so far. Cersei is the Lannister queen bitch. I know I can’t stop you from chasing your instincts any more than I can stop myself from doing the same. Just be careful. You have so many people who love you Marge. That’s not worth throwing away for a headline.”

               Jon stands behind Ygritte and nods. Margaery sighs. “I’ll watch myself, okay. I know what I’m doing though. I can out bitch any Lannister.”

               Ygritte smiles and yanks Margaery in to a hug and squeezes tight, then lets go and cheerfully says, “Oh yeah, Jon and I fucked on this couch this afternoon.”

               Margaery flicks on the TV. “Great. Alayne and I fucked in your bed last week. I think the handcuffs wound up under your bed.”

               “No!” Ygritte yells, not believing Margaery. She hops over the back of the couch and runs to her room.

               Jon bends down to whisper in her ear, “You’re not serious, are you?”

               Ygritte shrieks and stomps to her doorway holding up the silver cuffs as well as the white thong Alayne had lost.

               Jon’s eyes bulge. Margaery smirks, “It was laundry day and Ygritte’s sheets were too fresh to not use.”

               Ygritte throws the thong, aiming for Margaery’s face and hitting Jon’s instead. “Ewww!!!!” he cries. The thong drops to the floor as he runs to the sink. Margaery bursts with giggles as does Ygritte.

He splashes water onto his face. “Bloody hell Ygritte, that’s a week old. And gods! it was up Alayne’s ass. Damnit, I’ll have to wash my face for a week.” He sputters as he scrubs his face.

“Oh come on! You were eating my pussy thirty minutes ago. A little old cum never hurt anyone.” Ygritte shrugs.

“You just flipped out about your bed though!” says Jon, drying his face off.

“I wasn’t mad about the sheets. Margaery deserves a blinding orgasm every now and then. I just didn’t want to know the _kind_ of sex they were having. Kinky freaks,” mutters Ygritte.

“You’re so gross,” says Jon.

Ygritte saunters over and wraps her arms around Jon’s neck. “I’m a dirty girl. Are you a dirty boy?”

Margaery gags. Ygritte grins to herself, glad to have finally broken her roommate in their little game. “Come on, Jon. Let me show you how dirty I can be.” She leads Jon to her room.

When they shut the door, Margaery finally takes off her jacket, missing the feel of the worn leather already. Then she pulls out her phone and makes a call to her northern connection. It may be late, but Margaery finds that that’s usually when people’s lips are loosest.


	3. What's Dead May Never Die

Two days later Margaery walks into the Vale, a modest hotel owned by Baelish. It seems like a discreet enough location for her interview. Her connection managed to convince one of Eddard Stark’s former friends to meet with her, but not in public. He was into town for one day, so this was Margaery’s only chance to dissect his insight.

She comes up to the front desk. The man smiles welcomingly, “Welcome to "The Vale", how may I help you today?”

 “Hello, I’m meeting Tomas Tryne here. Would you mind calling his room to tell him I’ve arrived?” asks Margaery. Tryne is his alias. Howland Reed preferred that no one know who is true identity.

Once the clerk finds the name, he calls up to the room, then hangs up.

“He says you’re welcome to come up,” the man says, “Room 311.”

“Thank you, sir,” smiles Margaery. She decides to take the stairs rather than wait on the elevator. It helps her compose her ideas and rid herself of the nerves that precede each big interview.

When she finds 311 she knocks on the door, then brushes out her skirt, wanting to look as professional as possible.

The door opens, allowing her to walk inside. It closes behind her. The horrendous fluorescent lights illuminate every corner of the undersized room, despite the close curtains. Margaery turns around and sticks out her hand toward Howland Reed. His hair is short and sandy brown with specks of white sprouting along the side burns, complemented by his trimmed beard and mustache. He’s a large man, slightly overweight, it suits him.

Howland takes her hand and shakes firmly. “Hello, Ms. Tyrell. Please take a seat,” he gestures to the little round table in the corner.

“Thank you for speaking with me, Mr. Reed. I think it will be very beneficial to the story I’m writing.” Margaery walks to the far side and sets down her bag, taking out her notepad.

Before sitting, Howland pinches his eyes together in suspicion, scrutinizing Margaery. “The Spider said this will be off the record. No recording devices, no quotes in stories.”

Margaery nods her head. “Completely off the record. This is purely to better inform me of who the Starks were.”

Howland sits, but points to the notepad. “Put that away. If you can’t remember what I say, it’s not important enough to know.”

Margaery obliges. She stuffs her notepad back into the bag, then rests her hands on the table. The wood is worn and rough beneath her fingers. She could easily splinter herself. “He said you were a personal acquaintance of the Starks,” she starts.

Howland nods. “Aye. More like brothers, Ned and I. We went to the same school and I was best man in his wedding. When I was out of work, he hired me and helped cover the bills when Jojen got sick. What ever lies you’ve been told about Eddard Stark are wrong. He was a good man, not some heartless mob boss.”

                “Are you saying the Stark Mafia wasn’t a mafia at all?”

                Howland sighs. “No, I’m not. The Stark Mafia was a fully functioning machine back then. You’re a southerner, aren’t you?”

                The question throws Margaery off her train of thought. “Yes. From Highgarden.”

                Howland rubs his chin. “You wouldn’t understand. In the North, we’re a brotherhood. Down here it’s all about hierarchy and power, who gets the money and who’s in charge. Winterfell is like a family. We watch out for our own, we do what we do for honor.”

                “Selling drugs on street corners and committing usury is honorable in the North?”

                Howland clenches his fists and bores his eyes into Margaery’s. She steadies her heart rate. She might have gone too far too fast. “It was more honorable than letting children freeze to death in the winter. Ned never pocketed profits; he gave to the hungry and to those who needed it. Why should I give a rat’s ass if some spoiled brat in King’s Landing snuffed too much cocaine or if some lowlife politician who wanted to raise taxes on the poor up north got knocked off? Ned did what needed to be done to help us survive. He never took pleasure in any of this: in the deaths, in defrauding money, in wrecking lives. There were days where his eyes were dead from the carnage he had to reign, but he did what needed to be done.”

                This was a perspective Margaery had never heard before. All she knew was the tales of the powerful Lannisters and Targaryens pocketing their spoils and delighting in their personal glory. A mafia acting for the greater good was a foreign concept.

                Margaery clears her throat. “Tell me more about Eddard, or, uh Ned. Who was he?”

                Howland smiles at the table, then looks back at Margaery’s eyes. “Ned was a simple man with a good and conflicted heart. He was never supposed to take over the business. That was supposed to be Brandon. Car accident took out Brandon, and Ben had sworn himself to the priesthood by then. If he could have, Ned would have passed his power to Lyanna, but the world wasn’t ready for a woman boss then. So he accepted it. He never embraced it, not even when that cunt Clegane killed Lyanna. I think the best thing that ever happened to him was Catelyn. They weren’t love at first sight, the gods can attest to that, but they grew on each other. She made him happy.”

                “If he was so miserable, why didn’t he just shut it all down?”

                “I told you, the people depended on it. Hundreds of people lived off the money the mafia made. To remove the mafia would destroy the economy of the region, like it did after Ned died.”

                “What was that like for you, when Ned died?” Margaery fiddles with her fingers. She’s burning to take notes, to quote him and track what she notices about the way Howland clenches his jaw when talking about Ned’s death and how he nearly smiles when talking about the Starks as a family. How he makes direct eye contact driven by an inner need to have Margaery believe every word he says, because it’s clear he believes it as if it had come directly from the mouths of the seven.

                “Devastating. I felt like I lost a brother and a sister-in-law. And gods, those beautiful children of theirs. Bran came to my house nearly every day to play with my kids. He had slept over just the night before.” Tears swell in Howland’s eyes. “Do you know what it’s like to have to explain to your ten year-old son that his best friend won’t be coming back anymore? No you can’t know.” There’s no malice in his voice, just pain. He wipes his hand on his sleeve.

                Margaery reaches across the table and holds the man’s shaking fingers. He looks up, surprised. “No, I don’t know. That doesn’t mean I can’t empathize with you. I don’t have children, but I lost a brother once in horse riding accident. Willas was a good man, like Ned. Kind, gentle. I imagine it must have felt similar to that to lose your best friend and his kids. But I would never pretend to fully understand you.”

                The iciness that had remained in the stone squaring of Howland’s jaw throughout the entire conversation releases. He’s fully opening himself up to her. “It wouldn’t have been so bad if they had only aimed for Ned. But to wipe out a family like that. Robb would have taken over for him. He was of age. And his beautiful little girls. They meant the world to Cat. Arya was as wild and free as they came, and Sansa was an incarnation of a princess.”

                “What do you mean ‘they’? The fire was an accident, right?” Margaery furrowed her brow in concern, while inside her heart thumped in excitement. His word choice could be the confirmation she’s looking for to implicate the Lannisters.

                Howland shakes his head and scoffs. “That fire was an arson. No minor kitchen mishap could have caused that much damage in that little time. And I would bet my right ball the goddamned Lannisters were behind it. Those police reports hide a lot evidence, dear. Go through those if you don’t believe me.”

                Margaery maintains a solemn face. Inside, however, she’s rejoicing. A few minutes later, she wraps up the interview. Shaking Howland’s hand, she says, “Thank you, Mr. Reed. This was a very enlightening discussion.”

                He keeps his face straight, but his eyes give away his approval of the journalist. “I better not see any of this in the _Courier._ ”

                She picks up her bag. “Of course not, sir. I’m a woman of my word. 100% off the record.”

                Walking down to the hotel lobby Margaery digs through her bag and finds her phone. She dials Renly.

Following the second ring he picks up. “Hello?”

“You need to call the Winterfell police department tomorrow. Have them send over a copy of the report on the Stark fire,” Margaery unlocks her car door.

“Can’t you ever just call to say hello? Like ‘Hello Renly, lovely day isn’t it? How’s the one day a week that you get to spend with your lovely boyfriend?’. Is that so hard to do?” says Renly.

Margaery sighs and placates him. “Hi Renly, how’s your day?”

                “Why, thank you for asking, dearest friend. It’s wonderful. Loras and I went hiking today. You know I think you would really enjoy hiking through the godswood sometime,” he says.

                “Okay, so you’re getting that report Monday,” says Margaery. It’s urgent.

                Renly sighs, “Yes, first thing. It’s a Saturday Marge, chill out. Read a book. No more talking about articles or stories until Monday.”

                “Yeah! I can arrest you for stalking if you do!” yells Loras in the background.

                “But Renly, the interview was huge. I got the-” starts Margaery. Renly cuts her off.

                “Eh! No! I don’t want to hear from you again unless it’s a casual, friendly conversation.” Renly hangs up. Why doesn’t he understand how huge this is? She groans in frustration and tosses her phone in her bag on the passenger seat.

                Thanks to traffic, Margaery doesn’t get to the bar until 6:00, even though it’s only ten blocks away. Alayne should be done with her meeting by now. She and Baelish were meeting with investors to discuss operating a line of local cosmetic stores around Westeros. The discussions were still in their infancy, but Alayne was quite excited about the possibilities.

                Margaery stops in front of the side window to adjust her top before walking in. The place looks completely different during the day. She scans the bar for Alayne, but can’t find her. She does, however, see Gendry busting tables. He smiles politely at her and waves, Margaery grins back. He points to a back room, urging Margaery to go in.

                When Margaery enters, Alayne’s back is turned to her, hand on her hip, which is temptingly tilted to the side. Margaery licks her lips. Those leggings do wonders for her ass.

                “I don’t see what the fucking problem is!” yells the man Alayne is talking to. His dark brown hair, not nearly as dark as Alayne’s, has started receding and is gelled back with the tips sticking to his neck. His mustache, beard, and little patch beneath his lip shine with some liquid that Margaery believes is water.

                “The fucking problem is that what you did was sexual harassment. She could sue your ass, not to mention the company,” says Alayne. Her voice is calm and controlled, but filled with rage.

                Margaery decides to wait in the doorway. It’s best not to interrupt during conversations like these.

                He tosses his head back. “It wasn’t harassment. She was flirting with me the whole damn night! She shoved her tits in my face for Crone’s sake! So I took a quick pinch. Big deal. I want to talk to Baelish. You’re too emotional about this shit, just like every other woman. I thought you’d be different honestly,” he says.

                He steps to the side to walk by her, but Alayne blocks him off. “Baelish is not getting involved. If you talk to him, he’ll say the same thing. I’m suspending you without pay for two weeks. Be happy to have your job back after that.”

                His mouth drops open at that. Margaery hides the pride that she feels for her girlfriend, knowing the man knows of her presence. “How the fuck am I supposed to make money?!”

                Alayne’s not even looking at him anymore. Her interest is invested in the papers on the table. She’s leaning forward on her hands, her hips pushed out. “I don’t know and I don’t care. Get out of my bar, Bronn.”

                The man clenches his jaw and glances to Margaery. He contemplates something for a moment, but stomps off, nudging Margaery in his haste.

                As she reads the papers, Alayne sighs and pushes her hair back. Careful to not let Alayne know she’s here, Margaery slowly steps forward. The closer she gets, the better view she has. Alayne’s shirt has ridden up slightly revealing the bottom edge of the wolf tattoo on the back of her left hip. It’s Margaery’s favorite of Alayne’s three tattoos. She calls it the fleur-de-wolf.

                Feeling mischevious, Margaery reaches forward and cups Alayne’s butt. Alayne stiffens, “Move your hand or you will wake up in a ditch,” she growls.

                “Sounds a bit harsh,” says Margaery. She squeezes before Alayne spins around.

Alayne’s eyes light up like they do whenever she sees Margaery, and she pulls her forward for a kiss. Margaery squeezes her ass again. Retaliation comes in the form of a playful nip on the lip as Alayne pulls back. She lightly presses her forehead against Margaery’s.

“We can’t keep going so long without seeing each other. It’s going to drive me crazy,” she says.

Margaery chuckles. “Distance makes the heart grow fonder. We’re busy women, you and I.”

“I suppose,” Alayne sighs. She turns around and gathers up her paperwork. “How much of that did you hear?”

“Enough to know you have a sexual assault case on your hands. Why didn’t you fire him?” asks Margaery.

“Because she’s unlikely to press charges and he’s the best bartender I’ve got,” Alayne says. “Pricks. Petyr says something and they act like loyal soldiers, I say something and it’s like I’m a tyrant.”

Margaery has heard this complaint before. Between her age and her gender, Alayne doesn’t command the respect she deserves from several male employees. They don’t know the difference between a bitch and a strong woman.

“It’ll get better,” says Margaery. She touches Alayne’s arm. “You ready to go?”

“Yeah, I just need to take these to Petyr. Meet you at the car.”

Margaery sits in the car as she waits for Alayne. Curiosity strikes and she looks up a picture of the Starks on her phone. No pictures of the children come up, but there are plenty of pictures of Ned and Catelyn. Margery presses her thumb against a solo one of Catelyn. Her photo fills the screen. The first thing Margaery notices is the woman’s elegance. Her striking features are next. The high cheekbones, the deep blue eyes. She looked very much like…

Alayne slides into the car and perches her head on Margaery’s shoulder. “Whatchya looking at?”

“Catelyn Stark. She was a striking woman, wasn’t she? You and she have similar features.” says Margaery. She looks at Alayne who stares at the picture, then smirks at Margaery.

“I suppose we do. Much like you and that actress look similar,” Alayne teases.

Margaery rolls her eyes. “I’m not saying you’re related. Just an observation.”

Alayne sits back. “Jon told me you were looking into the Starks…and Cersei.”

Of course he did. Margaery should have had Ygritte swear him to a blood oath. “It’s nothing to get worried about, Alayne. I only needed some background research.”

“How am I not supposed to worry? You’ve been poking the Lannisters for months and now you want to start on the Starks? Baby, this is a bad idea,” says Alayne.

“I can handle the Lannisters. Jaime is civil toward me and I’ve held my own with Cersei before. And the Starks are gone, sweetling,” Margaery explains.

Alayne’s eyes narrow and Margaery can’t help but wonder why. “The Starks may be dead, but they had loyal associates. None of them would be thrilled with you tarnishing their name.”

Margaery takes Alayne’s hand. “You should know that I don’t go out looking to destroy anyone’s reputation. I just follow the facts, sweetling. If the Starks are as clean as I’ve heard, then there will be nothing to tarnish. Trust me, Alayne.”

Alayne closes her eyes and relaxes back into the seat. “I do trust you. I don’t trust crazy mobsters.”

 Margaery takes it as a sign of acceptance, and drives. They eat out at a restaurant, Alayne ordering several lemon cakes to take home. She can’t help but laugh when Alayne sends back one because it has too much frosting on it. As annoying as dating a perfectionist can be, it’s equally entertaining.

When they get to Alayne’s house, it’s chilly outside. Alayne has taken Margaery's jacket, which had been lying on the backseat. Margaery tugs at the sleeve. “I want this back.”

Alayne brushes her off. “You’ll have to take it off me to get it back. It’s too comfortable and smells amazing.”

 Instead of going for the jacket, Margaery rests her hand under Alayne’s chin and kisses her deeply. Alayne moans and sucks on Margaery’s top lip, sending chills to Margaery’s core. She feels adolescent making out with Alayne in her car. Right as Margaery is about to card her hand into Alayne’s hair, Alayne breaks off.

“Stay the night?” she asks, biting her lip hopefully.

“Er,” starts Margaery. Ygritte thinks she’s coming home. Then again, Ygritte’s probably too busy with Jon to care. And tomorrow’s a Sunday. But she needs to do work on Mormont’s assignments.

“We don’t have to do anything, if you don’t want to,” Alayne says, as if that could be the reason for her hindrance. She brushes her thumb against Margaery’s cheek. “Two hours after five days isn’t enough time.”

After another second of contemplation, Margaery nods. Alayne surges forward for a quick peck on the lips before practically squealing and getting out of the car with her lemon cakes in tow. Desperately missing her jacket in the night air, Margaery follows her in.

Alayne’s massive half-wolf, half-husky Lady sits dutifully guarding the house. Upon seeing Margaery, she runs forward and jumps, knocking Margaery back a step as she licks her face.

“Lady down!” yells Alayne. She lightly kicks out her foot to Lady’s back paw. Lady finally takes the hint and gets down. “Sometimes I think she loves you more than she loves me.”

That actually might be true. Lady never acted so happy to see anyone else. She was always quiet and peaceful, keeping to herself when anyone else was around.

After Alayne stuffs away her cakes, the women go to the oversized entertainment center. Honestly, if Alayne wasn’t partners with Baelish, Margaery would have assumed she inherited all her money. There was no other feasible option for how she could afford such nice amenities. For a while, they argue about whether to watch a rom-com or an action movie, finally agreeing on the _Bear and the Maiden Fair_ as a compromise.

Actually it was just Margaery who compromised. The movie is a sappy love fest, but it was Alayne’s favorite. Besides, Margaery is more than content to merely play with Alayne’s hair during the film.

Afterward, they prepare for bed. While Alayne takes Lady outside, Margaery changes into one of Alayne’s button downs. When Alayne returns, she strips down to her bra and underwear. As she takes off her leggings, Margaery sees the little sword named “Ice” running down her leg. She always means to ask Alayne what it means, but then Alayne snuggles up next to her and deftly unbuttons Margaery’s shirt.

“I thought you said we didn’t have to do anything,” she jokes, running her fingers through Alayne’s soft dark hair.

 “Shut up,” says Alayne. She unbuttons to the point where only the third button up remains buttoned. Then she rests her head against Margaery’s chest. Her fingers dance lightly over Margaery’s own ink, her fingers barely touching her rib cage as though thorns from the vines will actually prick her. She traces out the letters in “Growing Strong.” It’s the only tattoo Margaery has. It had taken three months of convincing, but Alayne eventually coerced Margaery into getting it. She never misses an opportunity to admire it.

For a long time, they lay like that. Alayne focused on Margaery’s rib cage, Margaery playing with Alayne’s hair as she texts Ygritte. When her fingers stop moving, Margaery believes Alayne has fallen asleep. Until she says, “Are you happy with your living situation?”

Margaery furrows her brow. “Sure. Why?”

Alayne scoots up to lay on the pillow with Margaery, her hand rubbing over the tattoo again. “I think you should move in with me.”

The statement’s bluntness doesn’t surprise Margaery. What does is that Alayne is serious. “I still have a lease with Ygritte, Alayne…”

“And you can sublease it to Jon so he can stop illegally squatting in your apartment. Things have gotten so busy lately with both of us, and I miss you baby. It’s logical, the next step. We don’t have to share my bed if you don’t want. You can take any room. I could see you more. I wouldn’t be worried about if Ygritte will randomly strangle you in your sleep one day,” Alayne looks at her earnestly, eyes hopeful, lips quirked slightly upward.

It is logical, but it’s not. Sure, she would see Alayne more and wouldn’t have to spend at least 5 nights a week trying to block out Ygritte and Jon’s night time activities. But they have such a good thing going. Why would Alayne want to mess with that?

Alayne sees that inner debate and sighs. “Think about it, okay? It would be good.”

Margaery bites her lip. “Okay, I’ll think about it.”

Alayne leans in and kisses Margaery’s cheek. “Thank you.”

Sleep doesn’t come easily tonight. While Alayne snores softly in her ear, Margaery’s mind runs rampid with thoughts. When did life get so complicated?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the only tattoo I have a physical reference for is Alayne's wolf tattoo, which is here: https://www.google.com/search?q=wolf+fleur+tattoo&tbm=isch&imgil=k1AoV_vxuAv5_M%253A%253BuBNl8tpdFsIQfM%253Bhttp%25253A%25252F%25252Frhpotter.deviantart.com%25252Fart%25252FFleur-De-Lis-Kitsune-347604986&source=iu&pf=m&fir=k1AoV_vxuAv5_M%253A%252CuBNl8tpdFsIQfM%252C_&usg=__EZO1BrIhKeGmIr3POql_NZYa5E0%3D&biw=1525&bih=777&dpr=0.9&ved=0ahUKEwjc0-zo6eHPAhUGQSYKHXkiBx4QyjcILw&ei=QcIEWJyvG4aCmQH5xJzwAQ#imgrc=k1AoV_vxuAv5_M%3A


	4. Work Too Hard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW. Very NSFW. Don't know when it will come again though (no pun intended)

“So what’s the issue exactly? You have a woman who admits that she loves you asking you to share her expensive pad with her rent free,” Ygritte summarizes.

Margaery kicks up her legs on the desk. She adjusts the phone over her ear. “First, she said that when she thought I was asleep. It doesn’t count. Second, there are several issues with possibly living with Alayne. I have to find a sublease with someone-”

“Jon will be more than happy to take it, especially when he finds out I’ve been overcharging him his share,” interrupts Ygritte.

“-Our sleeping schedules would be a nightmare-”

“Get some earplugs.”

“-We hardly ever fight now. Living together creates all sorts of arguments-”

“It also opens the door to fantastic make-up sex. Face it Tyrell, there’s nothing holding you back. Suck it up and move in with the girl or I will.”

Margaery pinches her fingers over the bridge of her nose. “Look there’s so many other things to consider: her dog, furniture, my family…”

 _Knock, knock._ “I have to go Ygritte, Mormont’s here.”

“Stop being a pussy and making up bullshit excu-” yells Ygritte as Margaery ends the call.

“Come in!” calls Margaery. She adjusts the papers on her desk and pretends like she was not using her lunch break to make personal calls.

Jorah Mormont is a quiet man with a commanding presence. When he enters a room, you pay attention. He comes in and stands in front of Margaery’s desk. Margaery folds her fingers in front of her and smiles up at him. Having established his authority, he sits. “What did you want to talk about Margaery?”

“Sir, you know I’ve been working on stories related to the Lannisters for quite a while now.” Jorah doesn’t nod, but Margaery continues, “And you know how much those stories have both increased revenue and impacted the community.”

“I think I see where this is going,” he mutters.

“Sir, I have a groundbreaking story in the works. One that if properly done could spark massive public reaction and promote substantial change in our streets. I just need to be able to focus more of my resources on it, rather than on routine crime blotters,” she explains.

Jorah huffs, “I understand you think you’re work with these mobs has been a gold mine, and to an extent it has. But you’re putting a lot of people at risk, Margaery. Everyone at this paper is a target to the mafia. Another article like the last one and we could very well see retaliation from them.”

Margaery stands up, asserting her own power. “Mormont this could end the Lannisters. Off the streets, out of our hair. I won’t utter a single word about it until it’s published, won’t type a single Lannister name until I have it all together. I just need the time and resources to get it together. So I also need you to cut down the workload you give Renly.”

“Gods have you, Margaery! You’re asking me to let my best reporter and best photographer go weeks without publishing for the sake of a story I can’t guarantee will come together” hisses Jorah, careful not to let the other reporters in the hall hear him.

“Not completely, no. Just to limit the work we have. Maybe 3 stories a week rather than seven. It will be worth it, I promise. I’ve got great leads and sources. And I think, with all my attention focused on it, I could have the story in two months.”

Margaery slides a file of documents over to Mormont. He opens them and flips through, reading carefully every now and then. He crosses his legs and chews the side of index finger. “Alright. I’ll have Samwell pick up the slack. But it better be one damn good article.”

Margaery smirks. “Oh, it will be.”

Jorah uncrosses his legs and stands up. He drops the file back on Margaery’s desk. “And I want statements from Cersei Lannister or I will not publish.”

“Of course sir. It wouldn’t be complete without that,” agrees Margaery.

* * *

 

Margaery and Renly spend the rest of the next week compiling research. The report on the Stark fire takes longer than expected to come, which doesn’t bother Margaery too much. She’s swamped in researching Cersei’s personal history. A miscarriage. Allegations of affairs. Shady business dealings. She sends a request to Cersei’s secretary at L&C Banking to meet with Cersei the next week.

Meanwhile, Renly interviews L&C employees under the premise of a finance article, which will actually be published next week. Mormont always promotes efficiency above all else. Some of them are merely bankers, some, such as the Frey sons, are suspected of being soldiers for the Lannisters. He never mentions the mafia, however. Doing so would give away their true purpose.

All her work has kept Margaery in the office until midnight a couple times this week, which she doesn’t mind at all. The office has practically turned into a second home in the past year.

Tonight is Friday night, however. After five, Alayne and Ygritte pounce upon her office, kidnapping her for their own devilish purposes. So far that includes letting her read through the file she managed to grab before being whisked away to Alayne’s house. Now she’s on the merger contract between L&C and Towneship Financial that was the basis of Cersei’s lawsuit.

It’s a fairly standard contract until she reaches Article 5 Section B: “At the time that both parties are of age, the eldest daughter of the second party shall consent to marriage with the eldest son of the first party. A lack of consent will incur a breach of contract. Marriage must last at least five years without divorce or infidelity. Infidelity will result in breach of contract. Divorce shall null and void this contract with neither side receiving profits, which shall be returned to government.”

Margaery rereads the words three times, and still she can’t reconcile the kind, family-oriented, honorable Eddard Stark she has heard about time and time again with this man who would sell his daughter into marriage.

For a father to trade away the will of his child…

Ygritte snatches the contract out of her hand and carelessly tosses it on to the couch.

“Hey!” Margaery scrambles to retrieve the contract.

“Work is over, babe. It’s time for the fun to begin!” says Ygritte.

Margaery places the contract back into its folder, then looks at Ygritte. Oh no. She’s wearing a short black dress with dark blue, sky high heels. “You could have said we were going out! I can’t wear this when you look like that!”

Alayne walks up behind Ygritte, putting in an earring. She’s wearing the crimson red, tight fitted dress that ends a few inches below her ass with the tip of “Ice” peeking out from her inner thigh, the one that she had modeled for Margaery at the store and that Margaery had nearly ripped in her haste to get it off her. Her mouth salivates at the image.

“Babe, you’re not wearing that. I bought you something, it’s in my room. I think you’ll like it,” Alayne winks.

Margaery begrudgingly gets up to change, but not before pinching Alayne’s ass on the way out. She returns a few minutes later in a black, plunging neckline dress with thin straps and heels that may be taller than Ygritte’s.

Ygritte turns toward her and her jaw drops. “Damn! Someone is totally getting banged tonight!”

“If I don’t die from a tragic fall first,” says Margaery.

Alayne just smirks. “Come on ladies. There’s a brooding bouncer who needs his hair fluffed waiting for us.” She walks past Margaery to grab her purse. Margaery bends over to grab her own. A sharp smack on her ass sends her jolting straight up, leaving Ygritte laughing and Alayne looking smug.

Seeing as Margaery’s car sits in the _Courier_ parking lot, they take Alayne’s old mustang. It’s a nice car, but Alayne hardly ever uses it, preferring riding with Margaery instead.

Margaery keeps waiting for Alayne to bring up moving in again. She has an entire speech for her declination planned. But it never comes up. Perhaps Alayne realizes what a colossal mistake that would be for them and has just decided to drop it.

Once they arrive at the bar, Ygritte sprints out, only to be disappointed that the bouncer checking I.D’s is not Jon. As soon as the man sees Alayne, he steps out of the way, allowing his boss and her friends to skip the line. Inside the bar, they find Jon scowling at the drinkers on the dancefloor. True to Alayne’s suggestion, the first thing Ygritte does is run over to him and tussle his hair.

He crosses his arms and glares down at, then says something that’s impossible to hear from across the bar with the blaring music. Ygritte puts her hands on her hips and sasses him back.

“They’re cute,” Margaery smiles.

“Yep, as adorable as kittens with mittens. Now let’s get some alcohol in you,” Alayne grabs Margaery’s hand and drags her to the bar.

The bartender smirks as Alayne strides up. “Look who came out to play tonight,” she says. She looks Margaery up and down. “Is this the infamous girlfriend I’ve heard so much about? Nice piece of ass, Alayne.”

“Don’t objectify my girlfriend. Only I can do that,” teases Alayne. She slips her arm around Margaery’s waist. “Make her the sluttiest drink you can, Shae.”

“Infamous, am I?” says Margaery as Shae turns away. She slides onto a bar stool, pulling Alayne between her legs.

“More like legendary. The woman who turns Stone into puddles. You’re hailed a hero around here most days,” Alayne flirts.

Margaery wraps an arm around Alayne’s neck, tugging her down. “You suck at flirting,” she says.

“But I’m great at sucking,” breathes Alayne. She meets Margaery half-way for a kiss. Margaery’s other hand holds Alayne’s waist. When Alayne sucks on Margaery’s bottom lip, she can’t help but agree with Alayne’s sentiments. She tilts her head and licks Alayne’s lip. Who needs alcohol when she has her own personal drug?

Alayne presses her back against the bar, and Margaery realizes that things might be going too far for public. She doesn’t want to stop though. Alayne moans as Margaery slips her tongue into her mouth and strokes Alayne’s tongue.

“Ms. Stone,” says someone, barely audible over the music. Margaery ignores it and kisses harder, rewarded with another moan.

“Ms. Stone!” says the voice louder this time. Alayne pulls back just enough to be speak. Margaery takes the opportunity to open her eyes. Gendry stands behind Alayne, waiting patiently.

“Not now,” says Alayne. She kisses Margaery again.

“Ms. Stone, It’s rather important you take care of this now,” says Gendry.

Alayne turns around, remaining cool. “It’s my night off. Unless someone was beaten to a pulp by one of the bouncers, it can wait.”

Gendry steps forward and whispers to her. Margaery folds her arms. There’s not much she hates more than interruptions.

Alayne’s eyes flare. “I’ll be right back, okay?” she says, trying to calm the rage in her eyes. She doesn’t wait for a response before she’s gone with Gendry.

Margaery sighs and takes the drink Shae left. The bartender mutters something about “Stone-cold killer”. Margaery only sips half of it before deciding to find Ygritte on the dancefloor. They dance for a few songs, but it’s too crowded to be any fun and once Ygritte decides she needs to pee, it’s time to clear the floor.

With Ygritte indisposed, Margaery sits once more at the bar. Nothing is ever “right back” with Alayne. At this point, Margaery just wants to leave. She hates bars anyway. Outside of Alayne, there’s never anything fun to do. But seven hells, is Alayne fun to do.

Lost in her rekindled desire, Margaery doesn’t notice the blond man sit down next to her. Not until his hand grasps her knee. She reflexively smacks it.

“Oooh, feisty girl,” he sneers. It takes her a moment to place his face. Joffrey Baratheon, Lannister heir.

“You can’t afford to touch,” warned Margaery.

Joffrey, however, takes it as flirting. “I think you’ll find I’m more than capable of paying your price. Just name it.”

                “Your amputated hand will work for starters,” Alayne says from behind Margaery. She scowls at him, then struts to Margaery. She kisses Margaery’s cheek and wraps her arms over her shoulders from behind, still facing Joffrey. “Touch my girlfriend again and see what happens.”

                Joffrey bares his teeth. “More wine!” he orders Shae.

Satisfied with her work, Alayne guides Margaery away from the bar.

“Why the bout of jealousy?” asks Margaery, unhappy with Alayne’s behavior a moment before.

“I’m not jealous. He’s a royal arsehole and deserves to be put in his place,” says Alayne.

“He’s also an arsehole who can be a useful source for my story. I had it under control, Alayne.”

“I don’t care about your story. It’s not important,” snaps Alayne.

Her words are a slap to the face, and Margaery barely manages to refrain from flinching. Alayne’s eyes widen with recognition of what she just said. “Babe, that’s-”

Margaery doesn’t want to hear it. Shoving through the thicket of drinkers and dancers, Margaery marches to the bar exit. She’ll text Ygritte that she’s ready to go. Few things could spark such an instant and emotional reaction from Margaery. She prided herself on her self-control. Insults to her work’s value, however, never failed to turn her into another person.

Outside, the brisk night air raises goosebumps on Margaery’s arms. In the open she has room to think, room to breathe. So, she does. In 1…2…3, out 4…5…6. It helps her collect her thoughts. She’s being irrational. Alayne had never been the biggest fan of her articles and stories, Margaery knew that. Still, she was normally supportive. With the stress of whatever Gendry pulled her away for combined with Joffrey, Alayne had been a little too blunt.

Gathering her resolve, Margaery turns back to find Alayne, only to be nearly knocked down by her running onto the sidewalk.

“I’m sorry, Margaery! I didn’t mean it the way it came out.” The words rush out, leaving the woman breathless.

Margaery shakes her head. “No, you’re entitled to your opinion. What kind of writer am I if I throw a tantrum every time someone doesn’t like my work?”

Alayne grasps her elbows and steps closer. In her heels, Margaery is nearly the same height as Alayne, so she looks straight into those earnest, pristine eyes that make her heart melt. “But baby your work does matter. I love what you write. I meant to say that I care more for your wellbeing than for your articles, no matter how important the story is.”

Margaery leans in and softly kisses Alayne. “I understand, sweetling. I’m not in any danger though, not from some a prick in a bar.”

“Of course you’re not. Because he’d have a heel stuffed down his throat if he tried anything,” Alayne asserts. She rubs her thumb in a small circle against Margaery’s elbow. “Want to leave?”

“Gods yes!” Margaery groans. On the way to the car she texts Ygritte. Almost instantly she receives a winking emoji reply.

As Alayne drives, she subconsciously rubs her thumb on Margaery’s lower thigh. Eventually she says, “Have you thought anymore about moving in with me?”

Margaery measures her words carefully. “I have. I think…darling it’s…”

Alayne is giving her side eye, puppy dog eyes as she drives. Just like that, Margaery’s planned speech is out the window. Saying no had never been a viable option with Alayne. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to say yes.

The hand on her thigh slides up an a little. “I think you would like living with me. You’ll have your own bathroom. No rent. You’ll be closer to work.” The hand inches up more, toying with the hem of her dress. The car comes to a stop in Alayne’s driveway. “A free cuddle buddy with Lady. The showers are bigger.”

Far too distracted by Alayne’s fingers now mere inches away from her center, Margaery doesn’t pay attention to her words anymore. She knows she’s still wet from her little thought indulgence earlier. If Alayne brushes her fingers against Margaery’s underwear, she would feel it. She watches Alayne trail her finger up closer.

“I could fuck you whenever you like,” Alayne breathes in her ear, sending waves through Margaery. How she had gotten so close, Margaery wasn’t sure. When Alayne finally skims her index finger over her panties, she shivers. “Would you like that? For me to fuck you every night? To make you come at your beckoning?”

She unbuckles and climbs across the gear shift into Margaery’s lap. She nuzzles Margaery’s neck. Margaery bites her lip as Alayne presses her finger harder against her center. “What about tonight? Do you want to come tonight?”

“Yes,” moans Margaery. She reaches to hold Alayne’s hips, but the woman shimmies out of her lap and out the door. “Then let’s go,” she smirks.

Margaery quickly unbuckles and catches up to Alayne at the door. The woman has been teasing her all night and Margaery will be damned to not have some measure of vengeance. Her keys are in the door when Margaery spins her around and pushes her up against the side of the house with a firm grip on her hips. She kisses her firmly. She keeps her lips parted, but still pressed to Alayne’s mouth when the woman opens her mouth to gasp for breath. The reprieve is short, as Margaery captures Alayne’s lower lip and sucks, garnering a whimper. Her hand drops down to Alayne’s thigh as she pushes into her more. Alayne’s hands find their way to her boobs and squeeze, then one slips around to her back. Her fingers feel for the zipper on her dress. When she finds it, Margaery playfully dances back to the door and finishes unlocking it.

The ever-loyal guard dog runs out the door and Margaery is barely able to avoid being tackled. Unlike usual, however, Lady keeps going. She’s in the neighbor’s yard, legs bent down in a “play time” position. Alayne looks back and forth between Margaery and Lady.

“Grrr!” Alayne goes after her dog. “Lady here! No! It’s not playtime Lady!”

As she kicks off her heels, Margaery giggles.

“Damnit Lady! I’ve taught you better than to vagina-block your mother!” Alayne yells from outside.

Her voice fades as Margaery runs back to Alayne’s room. She unzips her dress. It pools at her feet and she kicks it aside. With the two of them hardly seeing each other in the past two weeks, they hadn’t had sex since Alayne lost her panties at the apartment. Panties which were still laying on Margaery’s dresser. Damn she felt so needy, the memory of how the thong shaped her girlfriend’s ass further dampening her.

Behind her, the door slammed shut. She spins around to see Alayne out of breath, eyes deep blue and bulging as she checks her out. “Such a naughty girl,” she tuts.

She steps toward Margaery and grasps her waist, then slides her tongue over her own lips before pressing them against Margaery’s. Her tongue sweeps against Margaery’s lips and Margaery shivers against her. She does it again which coaxes Margaery into opening her mouth and deepening the kiss. As Alayne feels Margaery’s ribcage, the one with the tattoo, Margaery pulls down the zipper on Alayne’s dress. It falls.

Alayne presses her chest more against Margaery. She’s bare. Margaery nearly bites her lip as she brings her hand back around to brush against Alayne’s nipple. With one hand gripping the wolf on Alayne’s hip and the other massaging her breast, Alayne begins moaning.

Margaery guides Alayne until her knees bump the bed and she sits. Margaery pulls up and admires the view. Alayne looks back at her flushed, panting. “You’re so sexy,” Alayne says.

 Margaery kneels in front of her. Catching on, Alayne spreads her legs, revealing a thoroughly soaked red thong. Next time Margaery will appreciate the sight, but right now she has other ideas.

With her hands placed on the bed on either side of Alayne, she kisses her way up Alayne’s thigh from the tip of the sword to the hilt. She feels her breath bounce off Alayne’s core when she runs out of ink to kiss. She nips the hilt. Alayne tosses her head back and groans, then watches in awe as she takes the edges of the underwear between her teeth and pulls down. Margaery looks up through her eye lids and smirks with the cloth between her teeth. Her movements slow as she goes to the other side and pulls it down too. “Gods Marge, you turn on me on so much. I feel so fucking close already.”

Margaery finishes dragging down her panties then moves back. Alayne spreads her legs wider and cards a hand through Margaery’s hair. “Mmm.” Margaery hums against Alayne’s waxed mons. “Are you going to come in my mouth?”

Alayne nods. It’s all the confirmation Margaery needs. She kisses her labia gently, then harder as Alayne pulls her head closer. When she sucks, Alayne moans louder. A smirk crosses her face as she moves up to Alayne’s clit and licks. Alayne tugs on her hair and bucks her hips. “Fuck,” she whispers. Margaery’s own pleasure builds as she continues to run her tongue over Alayne’s clit. She doesn’t stop until Alayne’s legs shake around her head.

Wanting a new angle, Margaery pushes her hands against Alayne’s stomach. She lays back on the bed. Margaery strokes her stomach, pushing down slightly on her abdomen.

 She dips her tongue into Alayne’s entrance, a moan escaping her mouth. Alayne moans in response to the vibration. Her tongue plunges in and out. Alayne tugs her hair harder.

“Fuck Marge! Marge yes! Yes!” cries Alayne.

Suddenly, her pussy contracts around Margaery tongue. “Ah!” Alayne comes.

Her thrusts slowdown, allowing Alayne to ride out her orgasm. When her hips finally stop bucking, Margaery drags her tongue up through Alayne’s folds. Nothing sounds as good as Alayne moaning in post-orgasmic bliss.

One last kiss to her mons, then Margaery gets up to lay next to Alayne. They beam at each other goofily, and Alayne leans in for a kiss, another moan releasing at the taste of herself on Margaery’s lips.

                “Your turn,” she whispers. She drags Margaery to the center of the bed and pulls her up to remove her bra.

                “How are you so gorgeous?” Her hands are drawn magnetically to Margaery’s breasts. She guides Margaery back down to the bed, massaging her. A small whimper escapes and Alayne tweaks a nipple. The feeling of Alayne’s lips against her own draws another whimper. Then she kisses down Margaery’s chest, spending extra time over her ribcage. Margaery tangles her fingers into Alayne’s hair and tugs her back up. This time she bites Alayne’s neck. The woman groans and pushes down Margaery’s underwear. Margaery shimmies out of them and wraps her legs around Alayne's waist. One hand runs through her hair, the other digs into Alayne's hip, and Margaery's tongue flicks under her earlobe.

                “Seven hells Margaery, you’re fucking wet. So wet. I could leave you like this. Desperate and wanting. It would serve you right for leaving me at the door like that.”

                Margaery whines and rotates her hips to rub against Alayne’s abdomen. “Don’t play games. Make me come Alayne. Make me come hard.”

                Alayne kisses her and shoves her hand between them to stroke Margaery. She goes straight for the clit, leaving Margaery moaning. Margaery thrusts against her. As Alayne’s fingers rub harder, they glide down to her core.

When the first the first two fingers enter her, Margaery gasps. Eyes blown wide, Margaery bites her lip. That smirk. That smirk combined with the third finger gently pushing in has her close. Margaery moans as the fingers inside her twist. The other hand pushes down on her ribs. She’s so close she just needs…

“Come for me Margaery. I want to feel your pussy clench around me.”

Her fingers drive deeper. They push Margaery over the edge and she comes with a moan. She pumps her hips erratically and smothers curses in Alayne’s hair until her orgasm subsides.

A lip-biting grin greets her when she opens her eyes again. Alayne kisses her sweetly. Margaery grasps the back of Alayne’s head, tangling her fingers in her hair again. Gosh, she loves Alayne’s beautiful, dark locks.

“Are you ready to move in now?” Alayne asks.

“What if I say no?” Margaery smirks.

Alayne pushes herself up onto her hands and knees. Margaery trails a finger down her back to her ass. “I’ll just have to convince you then.”


	5. Advice

It doesn’t surprise Margaery that Cersei rejected her interview. Her secretary could have at least pronounced her name properly.

                “Really?! How do you get Terelt out of Tyrell?! Did she even read the email?”

                “It happens all the time, Margaery. She probably just confused your name with one of the clients,” says Renly.

                “They run an awful business if they don’t even check name pronunciations,” mumbles Margaery. She sighs and sits back in her chair.

                “We have time. These interviews we have are good, especially the one with Umber. It matches well with what Howland told you,” Renly says, in a low voice. No one else knows about their project, aside from Mormont, and that’s how it needs to stay.

                “I know,” sighs Margaery. “We still need to get some inside information from the Lannisters though, even if it’s just a denial. Clearly talking to employees isn’t cutting it.”

                Renly pats Margaery on the shoulder. “Like I said, we have time. Although, if you don’t get going, you’re going to miss your little lunch date.”

                Margaery glances at the clock on her computer. “Crap. He’s going to kill me.”

                “Make sure to tell him I say hello,” laughs Renly as Margaery runs out.

                Even at noon, the traffic is terrible. Margaery sits at the light in a seemingly infinite line of cars with only two or three cars going through when the light turns green. Tired of the wait and eager to not miss lunch, she decides to stomp the gas to make it through. The light turns red right as she enters the intersection.

                Almost immediately a siren wails behind her. The police car tails her, demanding that she pull over.

                “Shit,” Margaery mutters. The last thing she needs today is a ticket. It’s going to be expensive enough without a mark on her record.

                Depending on the officer, this could go several ways. If it’s Daenerys, she could get off with a warning. Davos would give her a ticket by the books. Jaime and his goons will bury her in excess tickets. Margaery crosses her fingers hoping to see Daenerys walk out of the squad car.

                Instead of a short, silver blonde woman, a tall, curly-haired brunette man steps out. Instinctively, Margaery flips off the rear view mirror, and he beams in response. The officer walks to the side of the car, delighting in Margaery’s misery.

  He taps on the mirror and Margaery begrudgingly rolls it down.

“License and registration, miss,” he says.

“Loras, this isn’t funny!” says Margaery. She digs through her purse and finds her license and papers.

“Of course, miss. Breaking the law is always serious business,” he mocks in overly stern tone. He walks back to the car, waits ten seconds, then comes back.

“I’m letting you off with a warning this time, miss. If it happens again, I will have no choice but to give you a ticket,” he says, but can’t hide the grin on his face.

Finally, Margaery agrees to play along. “Oh thank you, kind officer. How ever could I show my gratitude?”

“No need for thanks. I’m just doing my job, protecting the streets from evil doers,” says Loras.

Margaery rolls her eyes. “Oh you’re so heroic. I’m swooning on the inside.”

“Alright miss, you are free to go. Remember, safety is always the best policy,” he starts back to his car. Before she pulls back into traffic, Margaery watches him stick out his tongue at her.

A minute later, she parks outside the restaurant. She meets Loras at his car. He gets out and lifts her into a tight hug, then spins her around.

“Loras! Put me down!” she laughs.

“I haven’t seen you in ages, little sister. You deserved a proper welcoming,” he says as he places her back on the ground. Immediately, she smacks his arm.

“Ow! What was that for?” he groans.

“For pulling me over! I thought I was actually going to get a ticket,” she says.

“Then you should be thanking me, not assaulting me!” Loras whines.

“Come on. I do need to get back to the office today.”

Margaery allows Loras to loop his arm around hers and escort her into the restaurant. The hostess quickly sits them down and hands them menues.

“10% off for officers, sir. Thank you for your service,” the girl smiles politely.

Loras smiles back, “Thank you.”

After she walks away, he says, “That’s probably the best part of this job. I’ll never have to pay full price for a meal again.”

“Two months on the job and you’ve already let power consume you. Tsk, tsk. What will grandmother think?” Margaery mutters as she reads the menu. The words “marinated chicken breast” evoke a growl from Margaery’s stomach, making her choice simple.

Loras clears his throat. “Speaking of grandmother, her visit is this weekend.”

Margaery slowly nods. They had known about this for months and planned accordingly. Olenna would spend the long weekend at Renly and Loras’s house, while Margaery would take her on day trips throughout King’s Landing.

“Well, ah, Renly and I have been having a roach problem lately, so we have the fumigators coming this week. Except they won’t be here until Thursday. And they recommend not being in the house for at least three days after so…” Loras taps his fingers together, half-smiling hopefully.

Margaery stares at him, mouth tight in a hard, thin line. “You’ve had weeks to prepare.”

Loras leans forward and takes his sister’s hand. “It’s an emergency, Marge. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t. I’ll find a way to make it up to you, I promise.”

“It’s not that simple, Loras. I’m moving in with Alayne. That’s why I’m getting off early today, so I can help the movers.” It had taken four orgasms before Margaery relented. If Alayne’s squeal of excitement and the subsequent “victory orgasm” she gave her were accurate signs, then Alayne was more than happy to negotiate that way.

Loras holds up his hand to pause the conversation “Wait, you and Alayne are living together? Why wasn’t I informed of this?”

“I don’t know, why wasn’t I informed that I’d be on twenty-four hour grandmother duty this weekend?” Margaery retorts.

She loves her grandmother deeply, even she can admit that. Yet, the woman could be insufferable at times. Perhaps it is because she is so much like her grandmother: strong-willed, intelligent, snarky. Margaery knew Olenna favored her out of all of her grandchildren, so she doubts that her grandmother will mind much for the change of plans. Springing the news on Alayne, however, might be different.

“You realize what a serious step this is right? I mean, I’m happy for you of course, but moving in is a commitment almost as big as getting engaged,” says Loras.

“I know, alright! She practically begged me, Loras,” Margaery snaps. She sighs, then says, “And I’m not going to hurt her. She knows how much I care about her and how I feel about this.” There are some things she just isn’t willing to say aloud. Her feelings for Alayne one of them, mostly because she’s not sure how to phrase them.

Loras reaches across the table and holds Margaery’s hand. “It’s not her I’m worried about. Even if you can’t see how much of a hold Alayne has on you, I can. I don’t want to see you get hurt, baby sister. I don’t think you even realize how much faith and care you have for the girl.”

A plate sets down in front of Margaery, interrupting the conversation and saving Margaery from a conversation she does not want to have. “There you go, loves. Anything else I can get for you?”

The waitress smiles shyly at Loras, completely ignoring Margaery. Loras smiles back, politely and formally. “No, that’s all for now.”

The waitress winks as she walks away, sure to sway her hips as she goes. This happens every time they go out for meals. Margaery wonders how Renly puts up with it.

“Don’t think you can change the conversation so easily. I’m not keeping grandmother overnight and entertaining her during the day. I do have a life of my own,” Margaery cuts her chicken.

“But pweeessee!” begs Loras. Asking with his mouth full of hamburger doesn’t help his cause.

“No,” says Margaery.

Loras swallows and groans. “Fine! I’ll take her off your hands Saturday and Sunday morning. That just leaves you with her for the nights, Friday, and Sunday afternoon,”

Margaery sips her water. “And $50 dollars. Right now.”

Loras groans again and pulls out his wallet. He hands her the money. “Here you heartless witch. What kind of doting granddaughter demands payment to take in their own beloved grandmother?”

Margaery takes the money and puts it in her purse. “The kind who knows how to negotiate. Really, she would be even more proud of me if she knew.”

Loras takes another bite. “You’re probably right. You can do no wrong.”

Margaery eats and listens thoughtfully as Loras tells her about his first few days in his own squad car. He made two arrests and even stopped a bank robbery on top of several traffic stops. “It’s great Marge! I’ve never felt so fulfilled.”

When Margaery leans in to take another large bite, she sees a pair of black pants stop in front of the table.

“Can we help you?” Loras asks when the legs don’t move.

Margaery sits back and looks up. Joffrey Baratheon stands smiling confidently at her. “You’re the girl from the bar, aren’t you?”

Margaery nods. “And you’re Joffrey Baratheon.”

She glances over to Loras. He grips his glass tightly, knuckles flexing hard. Rumors of Joffrey’s treatment of women and general heinousness are difficult to not know, especially considering the boy’s uncle was Loras’ boss. It didn’t appear that Loras liked that Joffrey had taken an interest in her.

Joffrey looks at Margaery expectantly.

“Would you like to sit?” Margaery finally asks.

Loras’s eyes pop. “Marge-” he begins.

“Scoot, curly.” Joffrey orders. He shoves Loras over into the booth and sits in front of Margaery. Margaery sends Loras a warning glance to keep him from choking Joffrey. “So what’s your name, sexy?”

“Her name is ‘None of Your business’ and mine is ‘Leave Us Alone’,” snarks Loras.

“Forgive my brother, he’s a little cranky today. Too many hours on the streets, not enough between his sheets I’m afraid,” says Margaery. “I’m Margaery, and this is Loras.”

Joffrey turns to Loras and sizes him up. “So you’re the cocky idiot Uncle Jaime always rants about. You don’t seem quite as stupid as he says.”

Loras’s face turns red. “You can tell your uncle pri-”

“Loras!” Margaery intervenes. Even though Loras despises Jaime, she’s fairly certain he has no desire to lose his job today.

 Joffrey smirks and turns back to Margaery. “It’s clear to see who has the beauty and brains in your family.”

Immediately, the little walkie talkie pinned to Loras’ chest buzzes, alerting him that he has been requested for work. “Move,” he tells Joffrey. When Joffrey refuses to move, he pushes him out of the booth.

Mouth drooping open, Joffrey is too stunned to speak. Both Margaery and Loras ignore him.

“I’ve gotta go. Cover for me?” Loras asks, using his puppy dog eyes.

Margaery rolls her eyes. “You’re building a large tab today.”

Loras smiles and gives her a quick hug, then a peck on the forehead. “Love you little sis,” then he goes.

Margaery waves him off. When she looks back at Joffrey, he’s resumed his seat in the booth. He picks at the fries left on Loras’s plate. He won’t offer to pay for it, Margaery knows.

She plasters on the smile she uses to talk to difficult sources. “Sorry about my brother. He can be a little aggressive at times.”

Joffrey brushes off his shoulder. “Of course. With a prize such as yourself as a sister, I can imagine why.”

As he continues flirting, all his words sound sweet and charming. Most girls would fawn and feint for such flattery, but Margaery can’t ignore the way he eyes her like he already owns her. She’s already caught him trying to peak down her shirt twice since Loras left. If he had been anyone else, he never would have had the opportunity to even sit.

He is Joffrey Baratheon, however. If Cersei won’t grant an interview, her son could be the only way in.

“That bitch you were with Friday, why do you degrade yourself to that? Any man could give you ten times the pleasure she could. And I could please you ten times more than any other man,” Joffrey grins salaciously, biting his lip in a way that Margaery thinks is supposed to be seductive but comes off as creepy.

To keep from saying something she’ll regret, Margaery bites her tongue. Explaining to the asshole that Alayne was hilarious, intelligent, sweet, strong, and the best lover she’d ever had would be a waste of breath. Instead she says, “I’d like to get to know you more Joffrey, as a friend. I have to get back to work now, actually, but would you like to meet up and talk sometime. Being a journalist, anything you say would be on the record of course, you wouldn’t mind that would you?”

She slipped in the last part, knowing he wasn’t paying attention beyond her asking to see him again.

Joffrey smirks with pride and stands. “Of course, my lady.” He writes down his phone number and reaches to her chest to slide it into her bra. Margaery snatches the number out of his hand. “I’ll see you sometime, then.” She sticks out her hand to shake his.

Joffrey takes her hand and flips it over, palm down. He raises her hand to kiss it. His lips feel sticky, like they’re covered in syrup. Margaery slowly pulls back her hand. She hands her tip directly to the waitress as she struts out. Somehow she doesn’t think the girl would get it if she left the money at the table with Joffrey.

After she leaves the restaurant, she wipes her hand against her shirt. The boy definitely ate something sticky before sitting at the table. That would make it even more difficult to rid her self of the sensation of being around him.

The rest of Margaery’s work day, which was only two hours, went smoothly. Once Jorah edited her article, she was free to go. Which was perfect, because Jon and the movers were already at the apartment. She is in the apartment parking lot right at 3:00. It isn’t hard to find the large moving van being loaded by an incredibly tall blond woman and a shorter, stout man with hair as red as Ygritte’s.

“Lower it gently. That’s a fragile box!” Jon’s voice orders.

Margaery peeks around the back of the van. Inside, Jon is organizing her things. She notices that all of her heavy things have been pushed back, while her softer belongings are anchored down by fragile objects.

“Awe. You’re so thoughtful, Jon. You do care for me,” cooed Margaery.

“I care about my head. If I break your stuff, I’ll be without one. It’s a matter of self-preservation,” says Jon. He hops out of the truck. As soon as his feet touch the ground, Margaery flicks his forehead. “Ow!”

“You could have at least played along,” Margaery says, “Where’s Ygritte?”

Jon rubs his forehead. “She got called in to work. Apparently Hot Pie caught a stomach bug.”

“It was bound to happen one day.” It was difficult to find irony as sweet as Hot Pie, the human garbage can, getting a stomach bug.

Behind Jon, the gruff red head tosses a bag into the back of the truck. “That’s everything.”

“Ay, I said be careful. If I go down, I sure as hell won’t go down alone,” barks Jon.

“Oooh, I’m so scared of a little woman,” mocks the man. “Ain’t no sissy wench give me orders.” Clearly he has never met Alayne.

“Do as he says. Ms. Stone is not one to be trifled with,” says the blond. She gently lower the last box onto her mattress.

The man’s eyes go wide in what Margaery can only call adoration at the sight of the blond amazon. “Yes, yes. You do know best.”

Margaery looks at Jon, who is holding in a laugh. “Are they…?” Margaery mouths then uses her fingers to illustrate. Jon grins, but shakes his head.

“Let’s make sure we didn’t leave anything,” he says. Beyond the hearing range of the van, he finally lets out a small chuckle. “I never thought I’d see the day that Tormund Giantsbane was whipped.”

The apartment looks unfamiliar to Margaery. To begin with, she actually sees the floor. Likely this was a moment that would never happen again, so Margaery savors it. Then she notices all her personal trinkets have disappeared. Her notebooks had been packed away along with her dishes. All her pillows were gone. The television remains. She doesn’t need it, and she’s sure Ygritte appreciates the gift, even if she never admits it.

Part of Margaery is relieved Ygritte isn’t here. If she had been here, one of them would probably start crying, and Margaery wasn’t sure it would be Ygritte. She had spent three years living with the woman. Her entire life in King’s Landing has been spent with a weirdo who was looking for a roommate through the classified ads in the newspaper.

Margaery wipes the tear drop forming at her eye, grateful that Jon is pretending to be pre-occupied with the stack of bills on the side table. She goes to her room one last time and looks around. Everything is put away. When she’s about to leave the room, however, black leather sticking out form under her bed catches her eye.

A moment later she storms out of her room and smacks Jon on the arm.

“Ow! I didn’t do anything this time!” he cries.

Margaery crosses her arms, now adorned in her dearly loved leather jacket. “You were going to leave this,” she points to the sleeve. “That’s like abandoning a baby. You don’t do that!”

“It’s a jacket. And you’re going 15 minutes away. It’s not like you couldn’t come back and get it. And you’re still keeping a key!,” Jon says.

“No I couldn’t, actually. The last thing I want is to walk in on you and Ygritte doing it doggy style on the couch again,” she walks out of the apartment, watching Jon’s face burn with blush behind her.

Before getting into the driver’s side seat of Margaery’s car, Jon gives Tormund a thumbs up. The van’s engine revs and it pulls out, removing every trace of Margaery from the complex.

Jon adjusts the mirror, then glances to Margaery. She looks ahead stoically. She should be thrilled, not nervous. “It’s okay to be unsure, Margaery,” Jon says. “Alayne knows this is hard for you. She just wants to keep you close.”

Margaery toys with the loose string on her sleeve. “I’m fine. It’ll be good, right?” she turns to Jon, seeking his reassurance.

Jon smiles softly. “Alayne cares about you more than anything else in this world. Of course she’ll make it good.”

 

 

 

 


	6. Queen of Thorns

Mission: The Queen’s Arrival shouldn’t be this stressful. Yes, they did need to clean before Olenna arrived, but this seemed overboard.

“Alayne, the furniture is fine where it is. My grandmother will mock it either way,” says Margaery. She gave up on preparations an hour ago, yet Alayne kept finding new things to adjust.

Alayne nudges the chair over an inch. “There. Perfect. Now I have just enough time to clean the windows.”

Margaery sighs and ruffles Lady’s ears as she gets off the couch. She follows Alayne to the closet, then wraps her arms around her waist from behind.

“Darling, it’ll be fine. Grandmother likes you already,” she soothes.

That’s not a total lie. The Queen of Thorns, as she was known back when she was a Senator in the House of Nobles, definitely preferred Alayne over Renly, even if she had only met Alayne once.

                Margaery tightened her embrace and lightly kissed Alayne’s jaw.  “Calm down. There is nothing more you could do to please her. And if she’s a cantankerous hag about it, so what?”

Alayne spins around, wide eyed. “So what? So everything! The woman needs to love me Marge! Last time got off to a horrible start, and it will not happen again.”

                Last time wasn’t so bad. Olenna had dropped by the bar for a surprise visit, catching Alayne in a bad mood. Not realizing who Olenna was, Alayne snarked about her clothes, which unleashed a storm of criticism and insults from Olenna. Alayne had been mortified to even mention Margaery’s grandmother since, but Olenna later told Margaery that she was impressed by her girlfriend’s spunk. Whenever Margarey tried to explain that to Alayne, she would brush it off as a simple kindness.

                As Alayne reaches for the spray bottle, the doorbell rings. “No! You said we had thirty more minutes!”

                Margaery takes Alayne’s hand and guides her to the front door. “That’s what they told me. I can’t control how quickly they drive.”

                Alayne squeezes Margaery’s hand in a death grip. The bout of nerves is something she rarely sees in Alayne. It hadn’t been so obvious since the morning after she met her.

                Margaery stops in front of the door and faces Alayne. She bites her lip in anxiety. The temptation to laugh is strong, because the woman who makes her employees panic about one missed assignment is intimidated by an 80-year old woman. Laughing wouldn’t help much though.

                Instead, Margaery cradles Alayne’s cheek and rises on her toes to kiss her soft and slow. It seems to help. Alayne relaxes her muscles a little and returns the kiss. Then, the doorbell rings again, undoing all of Margaery’s efforts.

                “We should get that. Gods, she probably thinks I’m a twat right now,” says Alayne. She turns to the door, but Margaery directs her head back to herself.

                “You are one. So is she. She survived Robert’s Rebellion; standing on your porch shouldn’t kill her either.” She kisses her more firmly than before .

                After the third ring, Margaery feels Lady brush against her leg. She pulls away from Alayne, who no longer looks nervous, except for her twisting fingers. It’s the best Margaery will get.

                “Sit,” Alayne commands Lady. She obeys as Margaery opens the door.

                Olenna Tyrell is a woman of small size and a personality larger than the Wall. There was a reason her fellow politicians dubbed her “The Queen of Thorns” decades ago.“Finally. I thought I was going to be standing out there until Winter came and went.”

                “Well that was the plan, but my beautiful girlfriend convinced me to take pity on you,” said Margaery. The two walked into the house together, followed by Loras lugging Olenna’s bags.

                “Come here, child,” says Olenna. Margaery bends down and hugs her tight. “Oh, how I’ve missed you, my little rose. The game’s no fun when they don’t bite back.”

                Margaery laughs. “I’ve missed you too grandmother.”

                Olenna lets go and shuts the door behind her, knocking Renly in the head. “Sorry, sweetling. Forgot you were here,” she shrugs.

                “No apologies needed, Mrs. Tyrell,” says Renly. Despite her unrelenting torment of Renly, he always acts gracious and gallant.

                Alayne, on the other hand, looks lost in her own home. Olenna, followed by Margaery, approaches her. “That’s a big bitch. I haven’t seen one that big since before I met Luther,” says Olenna.

                Alayne’s jaw drops. “Wh-what?”

                “Your bitch,” repeats Olenna. “The dog,” she points to Lady, sitting next Alayne.

                “Oh,” mutters Alayne. “Yes, she-she’s actually smaller than her siblings.”

                Behind Margaery, something hits the ground with a thud. She turns to see Renly panting over a large bag.

                “Grandmother, you’re only here for four days. Did you bring all of Highgarden with you?” asks Margaery. Aside from the bag Renly put down, Loras holds three bags and Renly has another over his shoulder.

                “This was light packing, dear. You should have seen what I took to Garlan’s house when I stayed with him and his dim-witted wife,” says Olenna.

                “As nice as it is to carry all this, I would like to get it put away before my arms fall off,” groans Loras.

                “Well, hostess, go show them,” Olenna sits down in a living room chair. “Really Margaery, I expected you to find someone quicker on their feet.”

                Alayne, blushing deep red, doesn’t rise to respond. Instead, she takes a bag from Loras. “This way,” she leads the boys through the hall to the guest bedroom.

                Margaery sits on the couch next to Olenna. In front of her, Lady sits and turns, expecting Margaery to pet her. She obliges the dog and strokes her fur. “You’re terrifying her, grandmother.”

                Olenna smirks. “Let an old woman have her fun. It won’t be much longer that I can try the idiots you and your brothers bring home. Gods know your oaf of a father won’t do it once I’m six feet under.”

Margaery shakes her head. “She’ll want me out by the end of the week if you keep this up,” a tiny grin quirks at her lips.

“If that’s all it takes for her to tire of you, then you should thank me,” says Olenna. She looks over. “There they are. Here I was, afraid the three of you wouldn’t have enough brains to make it back.”

Loras rolls his eyes. “Then I’m sure you would have sent your precious little rose after us.”

Margaery smirks. “Who says I would have gone to find you?”

Loras smirks back, then looks down to his phone. “We better go if we’re going to make it to the movie on time Renly.” He goes to Olenna, hugs her and kisses her cheek. “Bye grandmother. See you Saturday.”

“Goodbye, Loras. Take care,” Olenna turns to Margaery and Alayne, who has joined Margaery on the couch. “Let’s get the grand tour finished, shall we?”

Before walking out the door, Renly comes. “Wait. I need to talk to you before we go, Margaery.”

Margaery looks back to Alayne and Olenna.

“Go on, Margaery. Between Jeyne and I, we should be able to find out way back,” says Olenna. She grasps Alayne’s arm.

“It’s Alayne, actually,” says Alayne.

“Perhaps you should consider changing it. You look much more like a Jeyne, sweetling,” tuts Olenna.

As Alayne begins the tour, Margaery follows Renly to his car. He takes out a large envelope. “It came today, the Stark fire report. A lot of information has been redacted though.”

Margaery pulls out the papers and skims them. Nearly entire paragraphs are blacked out in thick sharpie, leaving random, useless words unmarked. “What in the seven hells is this? This is public record. We have a right to any information the police wrote.”

“I’ve arranged plans with Mormont to go to Winterfell next week. Myranda is writing an article about the 100th anniversary of the Wall. I’ll be taking pictures there, but I can do some research while I’m there. Maybe even go by the  old Stark home while I’m there.”

“Gods, you’re the best,” whispers Margaery. She hugs him. “Be careful.  We can’t trust the Stark’s old affiliates any more than the Lannnisters.”

Renly nods.

Margaery turns to go back inside, walking straight into Loras. “You thought you could get away without giving me a hug?” he smiles.

He embraces her tight. “See you Saturday, okay. Please keep grandmother in check.”

“No one can keep grandmother in check,” murmurs Margaery.

Once back inside, Lady leaps onto Margaery, knocking her against the door as she licks her face. The envelope in Margaery’s hand dropped to the floor. “I thought we were passed this point,” she wheezes, trying to regain her breath.

When she finally manages to push Lady off her, she gathers her documents and goes back to the couch. With company, she shouldn’t read them yet, but this was what she’d been waiting weeks for.

The scribbled handwriting took a moment to adjust to, but Margaery could understand it. “Three bodies found, charred in living room. Two more in upstairs bedroom. No sign of forced entry.” Then a full paragraph of blacked out writing. “Fire appears to emanate from the kitchen.” Then more blacked out writing.

Two possibilities exist: That the Lannisters are withholding incriminating evidence or that the Starks’ henchmen are protecting their own. Based on her experience, Margaery tends to believe the former. The Lannisters have men stationed throughout Westeros to vet for their interests. Clearly the legacy of the Starks still thrives in the North, which is a threat to Lannister power. Any sign of foul play could cause a ripple in their delicate criminal power balance. How strong the Northern presence is, Margaery isn’t sure. She locks the thought in the back of her mind.

“Have I already bored you to the point of returning to work?” asks Olenna.

Margaery glances up. She hadn’t realized the two returned. Stuffing the papers back into the envelope, Margaery smiles, “Was the tour fun?”

“It was interesting to look at, but the guide kept stuttering,” sighs Olenna.

Alayne sits and cuts her eyes at Olenna. “Sorry if I feel uncomfortable telling you where I’ve slept with your granddaughter.” The fire that had been lacking in Alayne all day is back, and Margaery couldn’t feel more relieved. They’ll start from scratch again tomorrow, but she knows her fiery girlfriend is back for the night.

Her grandmother looks equally impressed, but says, “I believe I should know if I’ll be sleeping on a bed that has been used for some unmentionable activities.” She winks at Margaery.

“You had no problem mentioning those activities earlier,” Alayne mutters under her breath.

Margaery smirks at Olenna. “You have fresh sheets. That’s all that should matter.”

Suddenly, Alayne jolted up. “I’m not having this conversation. If you want me, I’ll be cooking.” Her hips swayed enticingly as she stormed into the kitchen. Asking Margaery not to watch would have been a crime, in her opinion.

“This version of your girlfriend is far more fun than the one who greeted me earlier,” says Olenna. She leans over Margaery and takes the envelope off the table. Before opening it, she glances back toward the kitchen. Alayne has music playing, at least muffling the sound of their conversation. “What are you working on now, sweetling?”

When she was a child, Margaery confided everything in Olenna. That had never changed as she grew up. Even now, she knew the facts and details about her articles that no one else knew. Rather than answer, Margaery gestures to the papers. Olenna reads, then stops. “The Starks?” she whispers.

Margaery nods. Once more, she glances over Olenna's shoulder to the kitchen. No sign of Alayne. “I’m using it to find more on Cersei.”

She expects something other than the disapproving glare. From others that was the status quo, but Olenna had always been giddy about her work. It’s different this time, when Olenna crosses her arms and sighs. “Margaery, you may not remember this, but back then the Starks and the Lannisters were blood rivals. Hated each other. Anyone who meddled between them was a walking corpse. What good do you see in rehashing these terrible times?”

                Margaery takes the papers back. “This could end a tyranny. Crime levels would drop. And can you imagine the story, grandmother?”

                Olenna pats Margaery’s hand. “Child, I’ve always known you were destined for great things. You got the best parts of me, thank the gods.”

                Dinner goes fairly well. Olenna drones on and on about how Garlan is doing with a comment on the pork being too dry thrown in. Despite her best efforts, Olenna is unable to further fluster Alayne. She handles the old woman’s post-desert interrogation with grace, effortlessly explaining her work as an entrepreneur.

                After eating Margaery volunteers to do dishes. As she cleans the kitchen, Margaery blocks out the argument over the tv with her own thoughts. It scares her that she’s so easily slipped into routine in Alayne’s house. Doing dishes after Alayne cooks feels far too natural for only living here a couple of days. It shouldn’t matter that she’s done dishes here dozens of times before. Margaery doesn’t feel as uncomfortable as she wants to feel, and it scares her.

                Done with dishes, Margaery finds Olenna and Alayne sitting across from each other at the table, four cards turned face up between them. Margaery sneaks behind Alayne and peeks at her hand of cards. Although Olenna is looking down at her own hand, Margaery knows she can see her perfectly. The woman has eyes everywhere.

                Margaery holds up her hands to form a little heart then holds makes an A, then two fingers, then finally three.

                Surreptitiously, Olenna folds her hand down. “I’m out darling. This infernal game bores me. Come Margaery, let’s see what’s on the telly.”

                Margaery slyly smirks as she skips past Alayne, followed closely by Lady. She’ll pay for her trick later, but that’s just another thing to look forward to.

                The movie Olenna and Alayne pick out is drab. Although she shakes herself awake a couple times, Margaery can’t stop herself from dozing off. She dreams of wolves and clichéd mafia movies so outrageous that she knows she’s dreaming. She awakens to the pressure of soft lips against her own. Instinctively, she returns the pressure, delighting in how the kiss firms in reaction. When she opens her eyes, those familiar, gorgeous blue eyes stare back at her. She didn’t remember laying her head on Alayne’s shoulder when she fell asleep, but wouldn't trade the position for any other.

                “Have a nice nap?” laughs Alayne.

                “Mmm-hmm,” hums Margaery. She sits up and looks around the living room. “Where’d grandmother go?”

                “Bed,” says Alayne. “With you out, she got bored of my company rather quickly. Which left me to finish the movie alone.”

                “Awe, you poor thing. How ever shall I make it up to you?” teases Margaery.

                Alayne smirks and draws Margaery against her as she leans back against the arm of the couch. “I can think of a few ways.”

                She cradles Margaery’s head and snogs her. Reluctantly, Margaery keeps it short. Even though she knows Alayne could use the stress relief, Margaery isn’t keen on the idea of having sex with her grandmother close by. “I’m tired, sweetling. I just want to sleep,” she pecks Alayne’s nose for good measure.

                Her horny girlfriend huffs. “You’ll at least sleep in my bed, right?”

                One of the agreements they made when Margaery came was that she could have her own room. Sleeping with Alayne was preferable to sleeping alone, but Margaery liked knowing she had an out for some nights.

                She nods. “Of course. My bed is too far away.”

                Alayne smiles and calls for Lady to take her outside. Left without another option, Margaery drags herself to Alayne’s bed. The pillows smell citrussy, like Alayne’s shampoo. Her thoughts drift to Alayne. There’s so much about her she doesn’t know. Alayne has never mentioned family or her past. Whenever Margaery asks, Alayne answers her vaguely and shifts the topic. After a few months, Margaery had given up on prying into her past. It didn’t matter as long as she was part of Alayne’s present.

Digging through recent history kept bringing her mind to family though. Despite her feelings toward the Lannisters, she couldn’t deny the mobster’s strong familial bond. And the Starks bonds stretched beyond kin. Yet, Alayne had none. Margaery couldn’t’ imagine living a life without family, without Loras or Garlan or Willas or her grandmother. It must be incredibly lonely.

A sudden dip and the brush of fur against her leg jolted Margaery from her thoughts. She rolled onto her side to find Lady panting beside her. The dog sprawled on her side on Alayne’s pillows, panting and almost smiling at Margaery.

“Have fun?” she asked and scratched Lady behind her ear.

“Down, Lady!” orders Alayne. She claps and Lady obeys. She looks between her master and Margaery, then pouts as she slinks out of the room. Alayne shuts the door. Her clothes drop to the floor before she takes the spot Lady occupied moments before.

Unable to resist, Margaery slides to Alayne’s side and snuggles. With Alayne’s arm around her waist, she murmurs, “You did well today. Not many Tyrell significant others can say they withstood the Queen of Thorns.”

                 “Not many Olennas have faced  me,” says Alayne.

                Margaery pushes herself up to her elbows and stares down at her lover. “You’re right. She’s never met anyone quite like you.” She snuggles back into Alayne and wraps her arm around her tighter.

                She’s asleep before she spares another thought.


	7. The Cub and the Pup

The day was supposed to be spent relaxing at home. That was before Petyr dragged Alayne to a day of “business inspections”. Really, what was she supposed to do with Olenna spending the say with Loras, and no girlfriend to romance?

                When Joffrey calls to have a late lunch, Margaery couldn’t refuse. She texts Alayne saying that she was spending the afternoon shopping with Ygritte, then calls Ygritte to pick her up. Fifteen minutes later, they’re in the parking lot outside some fancy restaurant.

                “The moment the little bastard tries anything, you call me and I’ll bust his head in with the crowbar,” says Ygritte.

                “He won’t try anything. We’re just going to chat,” says Margaery.

                “The moment he tries anything,” Ygritte repeats, giving her a stern look.

                Margaery unbuckles herself and opens the door. Before stepping out she turns back to Ygritte and says, “Do not tell Jon about this. Or Alayne. Swear it.”

                Ygritte stares back. “I swear it. I won’t need them knowing if I bust his skull in.”

                Margaery digs into her purse and gives Ygritte twelve dragons. “Buy something nice.”

                Ygritte grins as she pockets the money. “My pleasure.”

                She arrived ten minutes early. If Joffrey is the kind of man he appears to be, he’ll be at least five minutes late.

                She crosses her legs and sits on the bench. Her dress is modest, one of the most modest she owns, yet still nice enough to wear to a high-end restaurant. While she waits, guilt creeps up. Lying to Alayne was never the plan. If Alayne knew she was meeting Joffrey though, this meeting would never have happened. Likely it would have resulted in a blow out argument. It still might, but by then there will be nothing Alayne can do. Joffrey is the key to Cersei. Margaery just has to work him right.

                As Margaery predicted, Joffrey was five minutes late. He strode forward confidently, looking charming in his button up shirt and dark dress pants. “You look radiant as always, Margaery,” he smiles.

                Margaery returns the smile. “And you look quite well yourself, Mr. Baratheon.”

                “Joffrey,” he says. “I’m always Joffrey to you. Not to the rest of these vermin though,” he sniggers at the hostess, who blushes in embarrassment while she leads them to a table.

                The waiter greets them immediately. He begins rambling the drink specials. Joffrey cuts him off. “Two glasses of wine, the oldest you have.”

                The waiter bows and scurries off.

                “Do you come here often, Joffrey?” Margaery asks, uncertain where to start the conversation.

                Joffrey smiles. “Yes. My family owns the place. Along with half the town, but of course you know that. Everyone knows my family runs this town.”

                Conspicuously, Margaery places her phone on the table and hits the record button. Joffrey notices. “Plan on adding this to your work? Would you want to do a profile on me? It would be far more entertaining than the normal garbage the newspapers spew out.”

                “Garbage?” asks Margaery.

                “Yes, garbage. Like that reporter who wrote the article on Barristan Selmy. The bitch didn’t know anything. Nearly cost my uncle his chief of police status. If it wouldn’t be so obvious, mother would have sent someone to shut them up months ago.”

                Margaery smoothed out her dress. “She had her fifteen minutes of fame. If she mattered at all, why hasn’t she had anything been published in months? The paper probably wised up and fired her.”

                Joffrey ponders this for a moment. “You’re right. I’m glad to see they’re finally hiring smart writers.”

                Margaery smiles politely. “Thank you. So would you be interested in having an interview right now?”

                Joffrey thinks for a moment. The waiter brings the drinks. Joffrey waves him off before he can ask for their orders. “The chef knows what I like.” As the waiter walks off Joffrey says, “Yes. Of course, I will.”

                “Excellent,” says Margaery. She flips her hair over her shoulder. “What do you do, Joffrey?”

                “What do I do?” he repeats.

                Margaery nods. “What do you do?”

                Joffrey reaches out and pauses the phone. “Is this a trick? Are you trying to make me into a fool?”

                “No, Joffrey,” says Margaery. She had expected this. They always have their moment of doubt. These last eleven months have taught her how to handle these crises. “Let’s not play games either. The town knows your family. I’ve spoken with some people. They think it's cowardly to pretend that the Lannisters are no longer the great name they once were. If you want their respect, you must own it. Be who you are.”

                Joffrey glares. “Who thinks my family is cowardly?”

                “They don’t matter. What I see before me is a strong, righteous young man ready to take what is his. Do you want to lurk in shadows as the people whisper about what you do, or bring your family back to its former glory?”

                Approaching Joffrey this way is risky. He knows that she knows what the Lannisters are, but it’s Margaery’s best shot. It’s the right choice. Joffrey’s lips curl up. He hits the record button on Margaery’s phone again and proceeds.

                “I own several Lannister businesses. Mother is training me to run them. And one day I’ll run the entire Lannister organization. Our businesses, everything.”

                The way he looks at her, green eyes popping with pride screams the truth about what the Lannisters are, but she needs words. His words.

                A waiter carries over their trays of food. Roasted boar and various vegetables, but Margaery is too excited to eat. None the less, she half-smiles and nods in appreciation to the waiter. It’s more than Joffrey does. Immediately, he digs into the food.

                Once the waiters are gone, Margaery returns to her questions. “So Joffrey, what was home life like. Your parents? And your siblings?”

                Joffrey swallows a piece of boar. “Mother is in charge of L&C banking, along with some other business,” Joffrey winks at her knowingly and Margaery desperately wishes she had a camera to capture the moment. “As for father, well he was a strong commanding man. He made people listen to him. He was a bloody idiot, but they still listened. Just like they will listen to meet once I’m in charge.”

                “Did your parents get along?”

                Another bite of food. “Not really. They argued all the time, but everyone’s parents do that. Never did much together. Father went on hunting trips often. Died on one. Attacked by a boar,” Joffrey chuckles at the irony. “I wonder if this one was the product of that stupidity.”

                “How did your father’s death affect you?” Margaery tries to act as though she expects a heartfelt answer.

                He doesn’t even pretend to feel anything for his father. “At first I was upset, I guess. But now, I see what an imbecile my father was. All this power at his finger tips and he sat around drinking and hunting. I could be the head of a kingdom right now if he had lived his life properly.”

                Margaery half-smiles again. “You won’t make the same mistakes.”

                Joffrey shakes his head and sips his wine. “No.”

                “Wasn’t your father friends with another man who died tragically?” Margaery asks.

                “Oh, Eddard Stark.” Joffrey grins.

Margaery feels her gut drop. She didn’t need anymore evidence than that disgusting look of joy at the mention of Eddard’s death to know the Lannisters were involved in some way. Unfortunately, Mormont did. She clears her throat, “Yes, Eddard Stark.”

“Yes that was such a _tragedy_ ,” His lip twitches with the sarcastic emphasis. “You know, father desired for me to wed with one of them, when I was of age.”

“Really?” Margaery asks, pretending to be shocked.

Joffrey nods and eats some of his vegetables. “Sansa Stark. The gods saved me from a wretched match with her.”

Margaery sips her wine to keep herself from visibly showing her disgust. “What was so dreadful about Sansa Stark?”

“Everything,” says Joffrey. “She was so stupid. Always going on about romance and stories. The girl believed our arrangement would turn in to some grand love tale. Would never shut up about it. I righted that train of thought rather quickly.”

“How so?” asks Margaery.

“Let’s just say some actions speak louder than words. It’s harder to forget actions when a mark remains,” he smirks.

Margaery clenches her fist under the table. Bile rises in her throat. “Surely stupidity and naivety doesn’t make her that terrible.”

Joffrey shakes his head. “No it doesn’t. She was also gullible. Believed I would be a gallant knight. Do I look gallant to you?”

He was the farthest thing from gallant she could imagine. His brashness continues to astound her. What does he gain from telling her what vile human he is. It’s at this point that Margaery decides to be more cautious with her question. He has to have his own agenda. Each interview has two goals, and she’s been blind to forget that up to this point.

                 “She was a pretty thing though. We were both just teenagers, but even then she had filled out nicely. Perhaps if she had spread her legs for me, things could have been better. She was a prude though. Not like you,” he wriggled his eyebrows at her. “ Sansa Stark was a fool. A lovesick, pathetic fool, yet too prideful to give me what was mine anyway. Her interests bored me, her voice annoyed me. The gods clearly favored me the day they relieved me of that filth that would have followed me forever.”

                As he finishes, Margaery reminds herself to smile at him. “What about Eddard, what did you think of him?” She asks not because she genuinely cares, but she needs a change of topic. The things he left unsaid haunt her more than what he admitted.

                “I never cared more the man. As soon as father died, he tried to cut ties with my family. The fire served him right. Karma.” Joffrey finishes his wine.

                He genuinely believes the fire was an act of nature. Margaery could rightly accuse Joffrey of many crimes, but the murder of the Starks was  not one of them. Of course he wouldn’t know. He was too young then to be involved in such a delicate plan. And what need was there to tell him after. His loose lips could not be trusted.

                He doesn’t notice that she never touched her food. The waiters carry away their plates, leaving them at an empty table with only a bottle of wine and their glasses.

                “You’re quite fascinating,” compliments Margaery.

                “As are you,” says Joffrey. “Perhaps next time you can talk more about yourself.”

                “Perhaps,” says Margaery. She has no intention of doing so.

                “I could treat you far better than that slut you’re with. These extravagant things, all yours,” he flashes his teeth. He looks less like a charmer and more like a barracuda.

                “I’m perfectly happy with her,” says Margaery.

                “Then stay with her.” He reaches his hand across the table and traps hers underneath it. “She doesn’t need to know. We can have our own little dalliances and no one will know better.”

                Margaery fights the urge to jerk her hand. “I will know.”

                Joffrey frowns. For a moment Margaery thinks she might have lost him. Oddly, she doesn’t care. Then he says, “Fine. When you grow tired of her, I’ll be right here.”

                Margaery ends the recording and stuffs her phone in her purse. “Lunch was a pleasure. It was nice to speak with you, Joffrey.” She sticks out her hand. Joffrey takes it and shakes.

                She walks by him, only to have him grab her hand. “Don’t forget, a Lannister pays his debts. He expects the same in return.”

                Margaery smiles and gently removes her hand from his. She texts Ygritte that she’s ready to go. It’s only a few minutes before Ygritte speeds far too quickly around the corner and screeches to a stop in front of the restaurant.

                Margaery climbs in and looks. Ygritte flashes a smile at her. She’s wearing a new pair of sunglasses, evidenced by the price tag still on the rim. “Like ‘em?”

                “They’re fitting,” says Margaery.

Ygritte turns back to the road and drives off. “You didn’t text me to beat his brains in, so it went well?”

                “It was…interesting,” says Margaery.

                “Interesting, how?”

                “He had a few things to say about the Starks.”

                Ygritte nods.

                “How’re things with Jon?” Margaery asks.

                Ygritte smirks. “The things that man can do with his tongue…”

                “Ew! I didn’t ask about that! I meant are you getting along without me? Not everything revolves around sex.” She holds her head in her hand. The thought of what went through the woman’s mind half the time scares her.

                “Oh that.  Things are fine. We’re actually looking at getting another roommate. Jon says Gendry is looking for a place to crash and is willing to pay a portion of rent.”

                “So when you and Jon fight will he sleep on the couch or will Gendry?”

                Ygritte shrugs. “I don’t care. They can cuddle on an air mattress for all I care.”

                Finally, they get back to Alayne’s house.

                “You’re sure that dick didn’t try anything,” Ygritte asks one last time.

                Margaery sighs. She supposes she should be grateful for having such caring friends, but she can handle herself. “He’s no worse than an egotistical frat boy. I can watch over myself.”

                Ygritte doesn’t look convinced, but she lets it go. “Tell Alayne I said hi. And tell her to give Jon a raise. I deserve a good date.”

                “Bye Ygritte,” Margaery says as she shuts the door behind her. She waves while Ygritte backs out and drives off.

                As usual, Lady eagerly greets Margaery at the door. For once, she doesn’t jump on her, keeping her nice dress intact.

                Margaery goes straight back to up to her room and changes. She hears the shower running when she walks by Alayne’s room, so she must have just gotten back too. By the time she changes into jeans and a tank top and comes back out, Alayne has gotten out of the shower and sits at the table, damp hair air drying while she reads what looks to be a contract. Margaery walks closer, and yes, it is a contract.

                Behind Alayne, Margaery bends down and kisses her cheek. Alayne looks at her, then turns back to her papers, “Hey, did you get anything good?”

                “No,” Margaery sits in the chair next to her. “Ygritte bought a new pair of sunglasses though.”

                “That’s good.”

                For the next several hours, the room stays silent. Both women get lost in their work: Margaery reading the Fire report and lining up the available details with her and Renly’s interviews, and Alayne reading her contracts for the building lease for the bar and other paperwork Petyr likely gave her this morning.

                It’s not until she receives a text from Loras that Margaery stops her work.

                “Sorry, but I might have broken Grandma. Will explain later xo” it says.

                Margaery sighs and puts her phone away. Then she looks at Alayne, still hunched over her papers. Margaery rests her hand on top of Alayne’s. “Darling, we should stop for the night. This was supposed to be our day off, remember? We turned it into a workathon.”

                Alayne looks up. Her eyes were so trained on the words, that she has to blink a few times before seeing properly. She then takes out her own phone to look at the time. “I’m sorry, baby. I got so distracted, but I have to finish this. Fifteen minutes and I’ll be done for the night.”

                Because of her own history as a workaholic, Margaery can’t complain. “No more than fifteen minutes. I’m going to find something to cook, okay.”

                “Okay,” agrees Alayne.

                On her way to the kitchen, Margaery gives Alayne a quick peck on the lips.

                Not in the mood to cook extravagantly, Margaery makes a simple pasta, one that was pre-packaged and super unhealthy. She wasn’t the cook in the house; that was Alayne. The pre-packaged stuff was the only thing she could make without risking having to dump the food.

                The food is almost done when she feels Alayne’s toned arms encircle her waist.

                “Smells good,” Alayne murmurs.

                Margaery stirs the pasta. “You mean it smells edible.”

                Alayne lets go and moves to the spice cabinet. “I meant you, not the food.” She takes down a couple spices and sprinkles them into the pasta as Margaery continues stirring. “There. That should at least make it interesting.”

                Margaery dishes out the food onto plates. “How did things go with Petyr?”

                “Boring,” says Alayne. She grabs two forks and hands one to Margaery. “Lots of meetings with boring people talking about boring details. Safety inspections are ridiculously in depth.”

                “I imagined he doesn’t like being sued,” says Margaery.

                “Oh he loves being sued. He’s never lost a suit.”

                They eat in the living room. Nothing good is on tv, so they watch some old sitcom. Below Margaery’s feet, Lady lays. Because she’s been trained so well, she’s deliberately not begging. That doesn’t mean she’s not watching for any hint of food possibly touching the floor.

                It’s late by the time they finish eating. Margaery sits on the floor and rubs Lady’s sides. As her fingers scratch over one spot, Lady kicks and then whines as though she has reached heaven. Her fingers continue rubbing the same spot, and Lady’s leg kicks faster and faster in response.

Alayne sinks down to the floor as well and scratches Lady’s ear. “I’ve been thinking out getting another tattoo.”

                “Where?”

                Alayne shifts and pulls the collar of her shirt to reveal her left shoulder. “Here. I’m thinking maybe getting a rose, one fading from yellow to red, like the one you gave me on our first date.”

                Margaery leans over and kisses her exposed shoulder. “I think that would be beautiful.”

                The doorbell rings, breaking the slowly growing tension. “That must be Loras and grandmother. Let’s see the damage, Lady,” Margaery says as she gets up. Lady follows her to the door.

                Instead of a mountain of shopping bags, like Margaery expects, she opens the door to a wide-eyed, slack faced Olenna and a cringing Loras.

                “Ooohh! Margaery,” she slurs.

His brown eyes crinkle in an apology at Margaery’s glare. “I swear, I left her for ten minutes, and when I came back, three-quarters of the wine bottle were gone, along with the brandy.”

Olenna can hardly walk straight, leaning heavily on Loras to get into the house. “Don’t blame the poor boy. That was the best wine I’ve had in ages. And the music was devine. It’s been so long since I sang like that. Perhaps Lory isn’t bad as Gar.”

Margaery bites her lip to hold off the giggles. A video of Olenna drunk singing has to exist. “Get her to bed,” she orders Loras.

“I will not go to bed!” Olenna stamps her foot. “I want more wine.”

Loras keeps her from going to the kitchen. “You’ve had quite enough for tonight, grandmother. Why don’t you let Margaery help you to bed?”

Olenna huffs, then relents. “Fine. Come on Margaerys, I’m going to need both of you to get the chambers.”

It turns out that Olenna does need two people to get her to bed. With one grandchild on each arm, it takes several minutes to reach the room, mostly because Olenna stops to look at “the great hulking beast” following them every thirty seconds. When she’s laid in bed for then night, Loras leaves so Margaery can tuck her in.

“Have you been doing well by that tall drink of water Jeyne?” asks Olenna.

Margarey smirks. “Yes, grandmother.”

“You screwed her senseless today, right?” she slurs, eyes closing.

“Grandmother!” Margaery pretends to be scandalized.

“Obviously not. Remedy that. The poor thing has been deprived of her one joy in life, I’m sure.”

Margaery pats Olenna’s hand. “Goodnight grandmother. I love you.”

“Goodnight child. Go live up to the Tyrell name. Seven know that’s how I got Luther.”

Margaery internally gags at that thought. She gently closes the door behind her. In the living room, she finds Alayne and Loras snorting and snickering over a video on his phone. Margaery walks behind them and joins the them. Not only did Olenna sing to her heart’s content, she decided to get very…friendly with one of the waiters. Her hands are glued to his arse.

“Save this. You can use it next time she hounds you about Renly,” Margaery says.

“Oh, I intend to,” Loras replies. He shuts off his phone. “What did you two do today?”

“Work,” says Alayne. Margaery walks around to the front of the couch. She lets Alayne gather her in her arms and pull her onto her lap.

“Well, that’s not my idea of a fun day off, but you two always have been a strange pair.” Loras gets up. “I should go home. I have another fun-filled morning with grandmother tomorrow. Walk me to my car?”

Margaery nods. She gets up looks down at Lady. “Want me to take her out?”

“Yeah. I’ll clean up the kitchen,” says Alayne.

Margaery hooks Lady onto her leash and takes her outside.

By the car, a safe distance away from the house, Loras says, “Renly called earlier. He said the Spider’s sources have been helpful. No new information, but more confirmation on what you already have.”

Margaery nods. “Tell him thanks…and tell him I’ve made my own ground with the big cat.”

“I wish you guys didn’t have to invent codewords. It makes it far more difficult to be a nosy protective big brother and boyfriend,” Loras climbs in his car.

“That’s the point,” says Margaery. She extends the leash, letting Lady explore the yard more on her own. “See you tomorrow.”

Loras waves as he pulls out. “Love you, sis.”

She loved Loras to death and cared deeply for Alayne. She felt guilty about leaving them in the dark. It was only for a little while, though. That’s what she told herself as she let Lady back inside. Their safety was her utmost priority; the less people knew, the better.


	8. Interruption

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW beginning.

She slides her hand up the pale expanse of soft skin to the taut abdominal muscles above her. They constrict against her fingers as her tongue swipes through the folds once more.

She hears Alayne whimper and moan and can’t resist digging her nails into that sexy arse.

“Margaery,” Alayne moans. She’s well on her way to her second orgasm, and losing their little battle.

It’s almost cute how Alayne’s fingers fumble behind her to find Margaery’s clit. Of course, doing that while being eaten out by a woman with a silver tongue can’t be easy. Margaery is ruthless in her mission to make Alayne come again. She slides her hand farther up Alayne’s body until she reaches the swell of her breasts. Beside Margaery’s head, Alayne’s knees shake from physical exertion. Unable to continue leaning back, Alayne leans forward.

Although her attempts had been clumsy, Margaery misses the feeling of Alayne’s fingers against her. As revenge, Margaery grazes her teeth along the side of Alayne’s clit.

“Fuck Margaery!” cries Alayne. She nearly collapses, but holds herself up against the wall.

Margaery dips her tongue into Alayne’s entrance and moans loud, making sure Alayne can feel the vibration. She digs her fingers back into her buttock, then pushes her head up to press harder into Alayne.

Alayne cries out nonsensical words. Her breasts bounce as she humps Margaery’s face. It’s a gorgeous sight for Margaery. Alayne’s face contorts then slackens in pleasure as Margaery intentionally grazes her teeth harder, this time directly against Alayne’s clit, then licks up.

“Ah, Ah, Marge! Ah! Marge I’m going to come!” Alayne is close to screaming.

Margaery smirks. She runs her fingers slowly back down Alayne’s torso, then slowly inserts them up her entrance while still kissing her vulva. Alayne’s walls pulse against her fingers. Her other hand slithers up to Alayne’s hips. Then in one motion, she pushes down hard on Alayne’s hips while curling her fingers and sucking hard on her clit. Her walls spasm around her fingers as she screams out her orgasm. Her screams grow louder as Margaery glides her teeth over the swollen nub once more and pumps her fingers.

“Marge! Margaery gods!”

When Margaery finally slows down, Alayne holds herself up by the wall behind them. If she didn’t have to catch her breath, Margaery never would have relented.

The moment Olenna had left, Alayne hauled Margaery up here. She had intended for Margaery to be the one with multiple screaming orgasms, but Margaery had plans of her own.

After catching her breath, Margaery leans up again and kisses Alayne’s pretty pink pussy. “Baby!” Alayne groans.

The moment is ruined by Margaery’s buzzing phone. Alayne lifts her leg back over Margaery and collapses on the bed next to her. With a groan of another kind, Margaery rolls onto her stomach and reaches for the phone resting on the night stand. The screen reads Mormont’s name.

Begrudgingly she accepts the call. “Tyrell here.” She wipes her face against the pillow.

“Good you’re up. You’ll have no problem getting down to L&C right now,” says Jorah.

“Mormont, it’s,” Margarey glances at the alarm clock, “11:06. Get your night guy on it.”

“My night guy is in Winterfell working on your story,” Mormont growls.

Shit. “It can’t wait 8 hours?” Margaery asks. Soft hands unhook her bra and begin massaging her back. Alayne plants open mouthed kisses along her shoulder blade, making it that much more difficult for Margaery to listen.

“If you don’t get down there before that red bitch, good luck finding someone else to print your story,” Mormont hangs up.

Margaery curses under her breath as she rolls over and sits up.

“You can’t be serious,” Alayne complains as Margaery hooks her bra back. She digs through the bed to find her underwear, then runs from Alayne’s bed up the stairs to her room.  She throws on a t-shirt and her black skinny jeans. She runs back down the stairs and gets her jacket out of the closet.

“Babe,” says Alayne. Margaery looks up and sees Alayne wrapped in a robe, leaning against the couch.

“I’m sorry, darling, but I have to go,” she says, shoving her arms into her jacket.

“But babe-” Alayne starts again.

Margaery doesn’t have time for this. Somehow Melissandre always finds a way to be the first reporter on a scene, and Margaery isn’t taking Mormont’s threat lightly. “I know we were in the middle of something, okay. I promise, I’ll make it up-”

Alayne sighs and stomps over. She plucks at the shoulder of Margaery’s shirt, “Marge, your shirt’s inside out.”

“Oh,” Margaery quickly takes off the jacket and pulls off her shirt. She flips it around, then puts it back on. Then she slips back into her jacket.

Margaery’s about to charge out of the house, when she feels hand grasp her own and tug her back. She’s pulled backward. Her head twists around in confusion, then is pressed against Alayne’s lips for a quick kiss.

“Don’t forget this,” she murmurs, holding up Margaery’s bag.

“Thanks,” she takes the bag.

“Be safe!” Alayne calls. Margaery barely hears her.

Ten minutes later, Margaery is out in the open air in the parking lot across the street from L&C. The police have the main lot blocked off. Fingers crossed that Melissandre still isn’t here, Margaery runs across the street. To her relief, the wheels of a red sedan squeal behind her. She beat her.

Calm and collected, Margaery struts through the lot to the squad car where two officers are talking. Immediately, Margaery takes out her phone and snaps a couple of pictures of the scene. Being primarily a writer, Margaery doesn’t keep an actual camera. Nonetheless, pictures of some kind are better than none.

The younger of the officers squints his eyes toward Margaery. “This is a crime scene. You need to get off the premises.”

Instead of obeying, Margaery walks closer. The younger officer is clearly a rookie. He flinches as though he’s about to approach her, then the older officer’s hand holds him back.

He shakes his greying, balding head. “She’s press. I’ll handle it, you wait with the perp.”

The rookie glances back to Margaery, before doing as told. Margarey isn’t sure which one he is. With her relation to Loras, Mormont tends to keep her away from stories involving rookie cops whenever possible. “Nice night to catch a criminal, Officer Seaworth?”

Davos crosses his arms over his chest. Before joining the squad, Davos had been arrested multiple times for petty larceny. His experiences made him sympathetic to most people he had to arrest, but he still adhered closely to police protocol.

“I know the drill Tyrell,” said Davos. Margaery pulled out her notebook and pen and scribbled as Davos said, “We have a potential attempted theft, along with alleged trespassing. Two men One has black hair, tall, lean, muscular, Caucasian. You can write down any additional details from looking at him. The other is shorter, boyish looking, maybe in his late teens, early twenties. Short brown hair, clean shaved. He’s the one blubbering in the back. Neither is armed. Everything else is in the police report.”

Margaery glances up. “Any statement from the arresting officer that I can’t find in the police report?”

Davos opens his mouth, then shuts it. From the corner of her eye, Margaery sees Melissandre slowly approach the squad car. Once she’s out of hearing range, Davos mutters, “I hate that woman. Nothing good ever comes from her work.”

Melissandre’s paper, _The Red Watch,_ was infamous for twisting people’s words. Davos had been the victim of those twists several times.

“Give me something you won’t give her,” says Margaery.

His attention drawn back to Margaery, Davos raises an eyebrow. “Why would I do that? You media are all the same.”

“I have a brother on this police force. Do you think I want one of his brothers in white after my head?” asks Margaery.

Davos still looks suspicious. “Make it anonymous.”

Margaery taps her foot and shakes her head. “Can’t.”

“Then no statement.”

“Would you rather me talk to the rookie, eager for his first taste of spotlight news?” Margaery threatens. According to Renly, the young ones are braggarts who tell way too much.

Davos uncrosses his arms. “One question for a statement.”

“Is there any sign that this is gang related?” she asks. Then adds, “And elaborate.”

Davos looks back to Melissandre. She is taking pictures of the men in the backseat. He bows his head and grumbles, “It’s early to tell, but the break in attempt was elaborate. Confiscated an ear piece off the older one, along with fake ID’s and a fake entrance card. If it’s not mafia related, then they have some very high friends.”

Margaery jots down his quote and smiles. “Thank you, Officer Seaworth.”

Davos grumbles under his breath. “Damned reporters.”

Margaery goes over to the car. In the window closest her sits the pudgy lad. His face is red and his eyes are puffy. Davos is right, the boy can’t be older than 20. Margaery snaps a picture with her phone then goes to the other side. The man has his head turned away toward the boy, so Margaery waits. As soon as he turns his head back Margaery gets the picture. He’s familiar. How she recognizes him, she couldn’t say.

 She has enough for a quick story to be published in the morning’s paper. She runs over to the taped off entrance of the L&C building, which is littered with broken glass and snap a quick picture as Melissandre leaves. As she heads out of the lot, she remembers she needs two more crucial details.

She comes back to Davos, who is buckling into the driver’s seat of the car. She taps the window, and he rolls it down. “Names.”

Davos pulls out his report. “Podrick Payne and Bronn Stokeworth.”

Margaery’s pen stops at the second name. “Bronn?” she repeats.

Davos nods. “Bronn Stokeworth.”

Margaery scribbles down the name. Question after question runs through her mind. Why was he here? Does Alayne know? Is he with the Lannisters?

She shuts them down. There will be time for questions later. Stories come first.

It’s almost 1 am by the time she gets to the office. She types up a quick draft of the article and sends it to the night time editor. Likely he’s asleep, but if Margaery has to be up at this cursed hour, then so does he.

Another two hours later, her work is edited and set for the morning’s edition of the paper.

Although she feels tired like a walking corpse, Margaery decides to knock out her work for the day. The more she gets done now, the more time she’ll have to spend on Joffrey. She’s also curious about Bronn. The courthouse doesn’t open for another five hours, but the police station is always open, plus her favorite clerk is on duty.

Margaery drives over to the station. As usual, Missandei is bent over a book reading. “Please tell me that one’s in the Common Tongue and not one of the thousands of other languages you know,” Margaery says.

Missandei almost jumps. No one ever comes into the station this early. “Margaery, what are you doing here?”

“Making the morning run of course,” she says. She gestures to the report book.

Missandei pulls it out. “You can hardly call this hour morning.”

“My boss seems to believe there is no time for sleep.” She flips to the beginning of the binder. “Know anything on a Bronn Stokeworth.” It was against station policy to outright answer such questions, but Margaery had formed a sort of bond with Missandei. So Missandei turned the pages to the middle of the book. She knew the book better than the Septons knew the texts of the Seven.

Margaery skimmed down the page. “Someone likes to fight. And drink.”

Missandei rests her head on her palm. “Used to be in here once a week for fighting until late last year.”

Margaery gets out her notebook again and takes notes. She knows her story for the week. Hopefully it will be enough to justify only two stories this week to Jorah.

“I know he’s here. Saw Davos earlier,” Margaery clarifies. “Can I speak with him?”

Missandei purses her lips. “You’ll have to get permission from Chief Lannister.”

Margaery drops her palms to the desk. A simple job just became more difficult than getting Ygritte to not drink at an open bar. “Since when?”

“Since Lancel Lannister spilled his entire life’s story to Renly without a lawyer present,” said Missandei.

Margaery ran her hand through her hair. “When will Jaime get here?”

Missandei types on the keyboard. “Um… Looks like he’ll be in at 2.”

“Great,” groans Margaery. That leaves her with ten hours of nothing to do. “I guess I’ll be back this afternoon. Take care Missandei,” she says.

“Bye, Margaery,” says Missandei.

In her car, Margaery tosses her head back. She needs to sleep. Running on coffee for the next 18 hours, while doable, is not the best way to spend her time. She decides to go home…well, to Alayne’s home. It doesn’t feel right to call it her home. Or maybe it feels too right. Margaery’s not sure which, and she’s not sure which she would prefer.

By the time she gets back, the sun is beginning to peek out above the horizon. She stays as quiet as she can. As she sneaks through the house, Lady’s head jerks up. She smiles and pants at Marge, but doesn’t move when Margaery raises her finger to her lips. She’s a good dog.

Although her bed is soft and barely slept in, Alayne’s is closer. Margaery silently slips into the room. Alayne sleeps on her stomach. The sheet has slid down to her waist, enabling Margaery to watch her bare back delicately rise and fall to the rhythm of her breathing. Her beautiful dark hair, slightly tangled, falls over one shoulder. Her face is fully relaxed, almost smiling. She looks tranquil and alluring. Absolutely alluring

                If she didn’t feel as though she was about to pass out from exhaustion, Margaery would have spent the rest of her morning watching Alayne sleep. However, seeing as she is two minutes from turning into a sleepwalker, Margaery takes off her jeans and jacket and slips into the bed next to Alayne.

                Before laying her head down, Margaery leans over and plants a kiss on Alayne’s back. A moment later, as she feels herself fading into unconsciousness, warm arms slide around her waist and pull her close.

                Waking to the feeling of soft fur beneath her finger tips makes Margaery wake up faster than she intended to. Sunlight pours into the room from the partially opened window, momentarily blinding her. Knowing that Lady is the fur’s source, Margaery pushes her off the bed as she blinks to adjust to the light. She turns to the alarm clock. It’s just after 11 am. She got maybe six hours of sleep. Not that Margaery is complaining.

                She finds her jeans and jacket and goes downstairs. On the kitchen table there’s a note.

                “Had to go to work. You are insanely gorgeous ~~all the time~~ when you sleep. Anyway, I made you a lunch, it’s in the fridge. I’ll see you tonight (I do believe there was a promise of finishing what we started ;)). I love you,

Alayne.”

                Margaery tries not to let her mind linger on the last sentence. It was a common way of saying goodbye. And it’s not like Alayne said it to her face. It doesn’t mean anything.

                There’s a plate covered in aluminum foil with a note saying “My girl’s lunch” on it. Margaery takes it out and unwraps it. Alayne made a meatloaf and carrots. Margaery sticks it in the microwave and warms it up.

                She eats quickly, occasionally tossing a piece of meat to Lady. The wolfdog never begs, which inclines Margaery to give her food more often than she should.

                As soon as she’s done, she drops her plate in the sink and locks up the house. She heads back to the police station, hoping to catch Jaime on his way in. She doesn’t want to give him the opportunity to plan ways to undermine her work. Despite not encountering the chief of police in over a month, he never fully cooperated with her requests.

                She came inside in time to see Jaime walk into his office. Margaery follows him, ignoring the new desk clerk’s calls to stop.

                “Chief Lannister,” Margaery says sweetly.

                Jaime turns around. “Tyrell. As much as I’d love to gossip and play your little games, I have business to attend to.”

                He carries various folders with him and tries to step around her to the door. Margaery sidesteps, blocking him off.

                “Then I’ll keep it quick. I need to talk to one of the new men in the cell. Bronn Stokeworth.”

                Jaime smiles. It’s a dashing smile, the kind that easily wins fickle hearts. There’s a reason that when a story involves Jaime, the paper sends her and not Renly. “I would, honest, but the man posted bail. He’s not here.”

                She’s about to ask where he is, but that’s a stupid question. Of course Lannister wouldn’t know. Or if he did, he wouldn’t tell her. “Who bailed him out?”

                “Can’t say. It’s confidential. You understand,” he says. He tries to walk past her again, but once more is cut off.

                “Are you going to press charges?” she asks. This trip can’t be a total waste of her time.

                Jaime smirks. “I haven’t decided. I’ll have to go over the case with the district attorney. Which is whom I’m about to speak to if you stop falsely imprisoning me.”

                Realizing she won’t get anything out of him, Margaery steps aside and lets him through.

                “See, we can be civil Tyrell. You just have to give,” he smiles triumphantly on his way out.

                Determined to get her story, Margaery exercises every resource she knows. She googles Bronn and finds a phone number and address. The number, however, is disconnected.

                His address is on Blackwater Drive. She makes the twenty minute drive, only to be kindly informed the elderly couple living in the rundown shack that he no longer lives there.

                “Do you know where he might have moved to?” Margaery asks politely.

                “No, I’m sorry miss. He left long ago. I’m surprised he still lives in the city. He spoke of traveling to Braavos,” says the old man.

                Nothing else turns up. No address, no social media, no phone numbers. The only person who might know anything is Alayne.

                From the start of their relationship, Margaery swore never to involve Alayne directly in her work. Things had been tense the last time she saw Alayne speak with Bronn. There was no need for any risk that could put Alayne in danger.

                On a deadline and without a solid lead, Margaery packs the story away. She won’t cover it now, but he has a story worth sharing and Margaery will eventually sniff it out. Now’s not the right time though.

Doubtless, Alayne already knows about his arrest. So when Margaery comes home and Alayne asks her what was so important that she had to get up in the middle of the night to cover, Margaery says a break in, and nothing else. She knows Alayne knows what she means, and has no desire to further implicate Alayne.

Later, as she cuddles up with Lady and watches Alayne knit and bob her head to the rock station on her phone, Margaery can’t help but smile. How a woman who yearns to have a motorcycle and listens to head alternative rock can find relaxation in knitting, Margaery doesn’t know. It’s one of Alayne’s quirks and Margaery adores it. She adores her badass, impulsive, rom-com loving, canine-obsessed, classic novel reading, knitting girlfriend.

That adoration bubbles in her chest when Alayne looks up and smiles at her. She sets aside and her needle and cloth and comes over to Margaery.

Margaery sits up and bites her lip. Alayne smirks. She gets on the couch and straddles Margaery’s lap. Alayne’s lips slowly drop to Margaery’s throat, eliciting a gasp when she marks her. “Where did we leave off last night?” she whispers, her tongue soothing over the spot.

Margaery tosses her head back, opening her up to more kisses and licks. It’s going to be a long night.


	9. Welcome To The Front Page

Margaery spends all her free time throughout the week with Joffrey. He keeps calling her for meetings, each time talking more and more about L & C’s business practices (legal and illegal), the Starks, and leaving hints about his pursuits.

She should be thrilled at the vast amount of information she gets from him, but she knows he has his own plans. Each meeting he becomes bolder. He comments about her looks, touches her leg, her arm, offers to buy her things she can’t and won’t accept.

On Thursday, as Margaery packs her stuff away Joffrey says, “Mother is hosting a dinner party Saturday. You should come.”

The idea of going to such a party makes Margaery want to gag. Yet if Cersei would be there, there was no way she could ignore Margaery. Margaery opens her mouth to accept, then snaps it shut.

She and Alayne were celebrating their one-year anniversary that day. They didn’t have any solid plans, but the day seemed important to Alayne.

“I’d love to, but…” starts Margaery.

Joffrey cuts her off and crowds over the table, dangerously close to knocking over his drink. “That wasn’t a request. You will come. You owe me my debt. You will accompany me to this dinner or Mother will be sure the King’s Courier never sees another cent of sponsor ads, and you’ll never see the bullet that ends your life.”

He doesn’t realize the phone is still recording. “There’s a reason a Lannister always receives his debts. Mother made sure to let the world know what happens when Lannisters don’t get what is theirs. Yours is to accompany me at my beck and call. You’ll come to see it’s much better than being with your bitch. And if not, you’ll have notes to compare with the Starks.”

He grins like a sadistic mastermind, rather than the babbling idiot he is. Margaery has exactly what she needs from him. Moron.

                She reaches for her phone and hits the stop button before he notices, then slides the phone in her purse. She looks at him haughtily. “If you had let me finish, I was going to say that I need to buy new heels. The ones I have now aren’t dinner party appropriate.”

                Joffrey’s demeanor flips. He tries to play the charmer again, relaxing back in his chair as if the last two minutes hadn’t happened. “I’ll have someone buy you a pair.”

                Margaery shakes her head. “No, I’ll just find the time to do it on my own. Thank you, though.”

                When she gets back to the office, she has a voicemail from Renly. She sets down her purse and hits the play button, going around the room and gathering her remaining notes so she can go home.

                “Margaery, I’ll be back on Monday. Your contact, Reed, gave me some interesting things to ponder. I’ll tell you more when I get back, because we know the lions are watching. See you Monday.”

                Renly shouldn’t have made that call. While it was good that he had apparently found something, calling to only tell her that was an unnecessary risk.

A knock at the door turns Margaery around. Jorah comes in. “How’s the story coming, Tyrell?”

Margaery slides the growing folder of documents into her bag. “Well. I’ve had several interviews with Joffrey. They’ve been enlightening.”

“Nothing from Cersei?” Jorah crosses his arms.

“I’m close. By this time Monday, Cersei Lannister will be spilling her life’s story to me, just like Joffrey.” What that might be, Margaery has no idea.

“Don’t bet on that,” says Jorah. He walks around the office, examining the layout. “Get a good quote for her, then get out of this mess.”

Margaery rolls her eyes when he looks away. “It’s nice to know you care so much for me.”

Jorah stops, hearing the sarcasm in her voice. “I do care for you. I care for each of my reporters, Margaery. Your safety matters as does that of everyone else here. I’m here to keep you from doing something stupid.” He takes a step toward her. “Don’t do the stupid thing and assume you can bend Cersei to your will. She’s not an immature spoiled brat who thinks with his penis.”

“I don’t underestimate her,” says Margaery.

After a stern stare down, Jorah lets her leave. On the drive home, Margaery thinks of how to let down Alayne without giving away what she will actually be doing.

The first thing she notices when she gets inside is the odd lack of guard dog greeting her. Lay must be with Alayne. Margaery pulls off her boots and hangs up her jacket, then goes to the living room.

She finds Alayne curled up next to Lady on the couch, looking at a photograph.

“Hello sweetling, how was your day?” Margaery asks. She comes closer to the couch, but stops in the middle of the room. When Alayne looks up, she’s smiling, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. Eyes which are slightly red leading down to tear-stained cheeks. Alayne never cries in front of Margaery, hell she never cries at all, but that doesn’t mean she’s an expert at hiding her emotions.

“What’s wrong?” she sits down next to Alayne.

Alayne turns to her, “Nothing’s wrong. Today was fine. How did your day go?”

Margaery leans  her elbows on her knees and rests her head on her hand. “It’s okay to admit that something’s not okay. You can talk to me. I pinky promise I won’t tell anyone.”

Margaery grins and holds out her pinky. Alayne giggles and looks down at the photo on the other side of her. She picks it up and holds it between her and Margaery.

The photo is tattered on the edges and slightly grainy. It’s a picture of a little boy, maybe three years old with wild curly auburn-brown hair, holding a sleeping baby wrapped in a light blue blanket and wearing a little green cap.

Margaery glances up to Alayne. There’s a pained look in her eyes as she focuses on the photo. Her hands clench hard into Lady’s fur.

“Is that you?” Margaery asks softly.

Alayne purses her lips and nods. “The little boy is my brother. I …I was going through some old things and it fell out of a book.”

Margaery gently slides her arm behind Alayne’s waist. It’s the first time Alayne has mentioned her family. “What happened to him?”

It’s delicate territory. Margaery isn’t sure how far she can push before Alayne closes off. This may be her only opportunity to learn such vital details about her girlfriend though.

Alayne looks at her for a moment, torn between ending the conversation and telling Margaery. “He left me.”

She gets up and strides out of the room, leaving Margaery and Lady on the couch. That’s the limit. Margaery won’t push her any more. She scoots over and continues Alayne’s work scratching and petting the spoiled wolf-dog.

To distract herself, Margaery begins writing the first draft of her article. Of course it will change once she has speaks with Cersei and once Renly tells her what happened in Winterfell, but she has enough to start with. She’s halfway through the draft when the couch slumps down beside her.

“I ordered a pizza. Don’t really feel like cooking tonight,” says Alayne.

Margaery saves her draft and closes her laptop. “That’s fine. You shouldn’t feel obligated to cook.”

Margaery reaches to the table for the remote and flips on the news. They remain in comfortable silence until after the delivery boy arrives. The quiet has given Margaery time to decide upon an excuse. She picks up two slices of pizza and drops them on her plate. “About Saturday…” she begins.

Alayne cuts her off. “I know it’s our anniversary baby, but there’s a business conference Petyr wants me to attend with him. A lot of investors will be there.” Alayne looks genuinely sad about the ordeal. “It’ll only be two days, and I’ll be back early Sunday morning. Maybe we can celebrate then?”

Relief floods Margaery’s chest. “That’s great.” Alayne cocks her head at that. “I mean, Jorah wants me to go to a dinner party and schmooze potential sources, so it works out for both of us.”

The best lies always have an element of truth.

Alayne nods. She pops open a beer bottle. “I don’t see how you can drink wine with pizza. It’s not natural.”

Margaery smirks. “It’s more natural than that filth you’re drinking. You realize Ygritte bought that at a dollar store, right?”

Alayne cringes as she swallows. “Oh yeah. Definitely dollar store quality.”

Margaery giggles and leans across her plate to kiss Alayne, slipping her tongue into her mouth and stroking it against Alayne’s, tasting the horrible beer.

“There. Now you have something more pleasurable on your tongue.”

Alayne smiles and sets down her beer. “You know I love you, right?” She leans in for a quick kiss, not noticing that Margaery has completely frozen up.

It was the second time Alayne had said those three words (the letter didn’t count). Margaery could not bring herself to think them.

 For the rest of the night, she manages to shove her thoughts aside. In bed, though, she can't hold them back.

She should be able to say it back. Why couldn’t she say it back? She cared deeply for Alayne. And even if she wasn’t convinced thoroughly of her own feelings, she should be able to go along, right?

Yet, something felt off. It didn’t seem right to say it, not yet.

Margaery rolls onto her back and stares at the ceiling. She has something deep with Alayne. She had an emotional bond with some of her previous girlfriends, but never what she felt with Alayne. She had never said those words to another girlfriend either.

She turns her head toward Alayne. She’s been asleep for at least an hour now. If she had any idea of the struggle Margaery was experiencing, she didn’t let her know.

 

She looks herself up and down in the mirror. She looks classy, just as she intended to. One last adjustment to her neckline, and she’s out the door, headed to her car.

Despite the high-end nature of the party, Margaery can’t resist bringing her leather jacket. It ruins the sophistication of her dress and heel ensemble, but she’ll need something to keep her sane tonight amongst all the lions.

She had turned down Joffrey’s offer to send his driver to pick her up, preferring to drive herself. It also gives her an excuse to not drink tonight.

When she arrives outside the Lannister mansion, the street is already lined with cars. Fancy ones, far nicer than hers.

Reluctantly, Margaery takes off her jacket and leaves it in the car. She walks up the long driveway to the house. The doors are wide open, with security guards in front.

“Name?” one of them asks.

“Margaery Tyrell,” she says.

He looks through a list of names, flipping a couple pages. He runs his finger down each paper until it stops. “Tyrell. Go in.”

She smiles at him as she walks by. The mansion is as lavish as she would have expected. High ceilings, a golden glow of lights. Grandiose figurines line the walls. They’re men and women in power poses, carved in stone. The soft melody of violins, a base, and a piano override the guests’ incessant chatter. As she slides by, Margaery spots the elites of the city. The mayor, Jaime, Lysa Arryn. Interestingly enough, she also sees Black Walder and the Freys, whom Jaime had recently renounced in a press conference as low life thieves. Apparently, opinions can change quickly.

“Margaery, welcome to my home. I trust you like it,” she hears Joffrey’s voice ring behind her.

Margaery turns. He looks handsome in his dark crimson suit and black tie, half-smiling overconfidently. She doesn’t miss the way he leers at her hips and chest. “Yes, it appears your mother has a refined and elegant taste.”

“She’s not the only one with refined tastes. You, sweet thing, look radiant,” His grin grows, baring his teeth. He slips his arm around Margaery’s waist.

Margaery easily shrugs him off. “No touching,” she warns.

Like usual, he merely smirks. “You’ll come around.”

There’s no escaping Joffrey. In every conversation, he pops up. Even when his brother comes and drags him away to meet with “official guests”, he somehow seeks Margaery out.

The night feels like a waste. There’s been no sign of Cersei.

Tired of the superficial conversations, Margaery takes a break at the hors d’ oeuvre’s table. Over her life, she’s grown to loathe the pretentiousness of the business and political spheres. As a child, she learned the art of it. Her grandmother taught her how to greet and manipulate politicians, how to charm and impress businessmen in negotiations. Everyone knew it was a load of bull, yet the more you schmoozed and played, the better they received you. Despite herself, she found it a useful skill in her line of work. It was a necessary skill that came in handy during times like these.

While she scans the room, one of the many butlers comes up to her and bows. “Ms. Tyrell?”

“Yes?” she asks

“Mr. Baratheon would like me to escort you to him.”

Not even three minutes of peace. “Of course. Thank you sir,” Margaery nods. She follows him to a side room. It’s lit dimly, with a stag head on each wall. There’s a small crowd of people, including Joffrey. The butler bows as he leaves Margaery by Joffrey’s side.

“There you are. Mother’s been anxious to meet you,” he winks.

Mother is standing in the middle of the circle, holding a wine glass. All she has to do is give Margaery a quick up-down to declare her status as the alpha in the room. Her tight dress, as deep and rich as Joffrey’s, compliments her power. Long sleeves like an armor, yet a hem that only reaches mid thigh, giving her a sensual appeal. Her blonde tousles tumble down her shoulders gracefully.

Her lips quirk up as she reaches her hand out to Margaery. She looks uncomfortable with the act of kindness. “Marty, it’s lovely to meet you. Joff has had much to say about you recently.”

Margaery smiles back easily, softly. “It’s Margaery, actually. With so many people here, it’s easy to get names mixed up though, isn’t it Mrs. Baratheon?”

Cersei’s lips tightened into a grimace at the jab. “Yes, yes. Though I’ve taken my maiden name since my husband’s death.”

With a wave of her hand, Cersei clears the room of the remaining bystanders. “I’d like some privacy with my son and his…date.”

“I’m not his date. We’re associates,” Margaery says carefully.

Both Joffrey and Cersei ignore the assertion. “Come. Sit.”  Cersei gestures to the black leather couch in the middle of the room, across from a large red leather recliner.

Margaery follows her and sits on the couch beside Joffrey as Cersei sits in the recliner.

“Joffrey tells me you’re a reporter, Ms. Tyrell,” says Cersei.

Margaery nods. She folds her hands into her lap. “Yes. I work for the _The King’s Courier_.”

“Ah yes. The newspaper intent on defaming my family. Are you by any chance related to Loras Tyrell?”

This time Joffrey cuts Margaery off. “Yes, mother. I told you that oaf nearly ruined our lunch a couple weeks ago, remember?”

Funny how a private meal between her brother and herself had turned into “our lunch” with Joffrey.

“Jaime speaks well of him,” says Cersei. She sips her wine. “I believe he has mentioned you a few times as well.”

“Perhaps. Several reporters have spoken with him from the _Courier_ alone. I wouldn’t be surprised if he knew me only from my relation to Loras.”

Cersei leans back. “Well, nonetheless, that paper is corrupted. A sweet dove like you should find a worthwhile publication to write for. Perhaps the _Westeros Daily_ is hiring.”

Margaery crosses her legs. “How can we address corruption if not from the inside? I believe a paper like the _Courier_ needs me to find its way out of the depths its in.”

“See mother. She’s tenacious. Not like those idiots that usually beg you for interviews,” Joffrey looks positively giddy and smitten.

Margaery doesn’t pay him attention. Her eyes are focused on Cersei. The matriarch stares at her hard and stone-faced. “No, she’s not like the rest of them.”

“Margaery?!” yells a familiar voice from the door of the room.

Margaery twists her head around. In the doorway, Gendry stands, wearing a waiter’s uniform and holding a tray of wine glasses.

Joffrey shoots to his feet and stamps his foot. “Get on, Help! We’re paying you to serve, not fraternize with your betters.”

Cersei stretches out her arm and pats Joffrey’s side. “Now, my love, clearly our guest knows the help well. You might offend her tastes.”

Margaery ignores the jab and goes over to Gendry. “Gendry, what are you doing here?”

I-I,” he stammers, “I’m, uhm, I’m making some extra money. I’ve had a lot of off days lately and need the cash. Been happening a lot lately,” he adds. His teeth cringe together.

“Perhaps I can convince Alayne to give you more work,” Margaery whispers playfully.

“Thanks. Seven know you’ve got the woman wrapped around your finger. Just the other day she couldn’t shut up about needing to finish up early so she could surprise you for dinner.” He smiles then cringes again.

“Are you okay?” Margaery asks.

“Yeah. Just got a canker sore,” says Gendry.

Margaery reaches out to take a wine glass off the tray. Unfortunately, Joffrey chooses that moment to become a possessive ass and yank on her arm as he walks by, muttering “Come on Margaery. Let’s quit wasting your time on gutter trash.”

Margaery hadn’t been expecting the pull and neither had Gendry. The force causes Margaery to stumble in her heels as the wine glass catches the edge of the tray, spilling the wine all over her as she falls to the floor. The glasses, made with genuine glass, not plastic, crash to the floor around her. Wine spills over her, with  some small shards catching into her arm and cutting her bare arms, but nothing going deep.

“You fucking idiot!” Joffrey screeches. Margaery looks up. His face is as red as his suit. For once, she can see why someone might fear him. He looks as though he could easily take one of the larger shards and stab Gendry through his chest. “You fucking hurt my girl and ruined my shoes! You fucking klutz! I should have your head mounted beside the deer in my den!”

He continues to tirade as one of the waitresses comes over and helps Margaery up.

Before Margaery can assess the damage, a flash momentarily blinds her. She blinks, and makes out the grinning image of Melissandre behind the lights. “Welcome to the front page, madam journalist.”

Fuck.


	10. Aftermath

Getting out of bed felt like more trouble than it was worth on such a miserable Sunday morning. Her phone would be blown up with messages from Loras and Grandmother, and likely with a couple from Garlan and perhaps even father as well. Her arm stung slightly from the bandaged cuts that would need to air out.

 She wasn’t quite sure if it would be worse for her to break the news to Alayne or for the newspaper to do so. She had no doubt the Red bitch kept her word and plastered her face all over the front page of her tabloid paper. The headline probably read something like “A Lion’s Claws: Early Trouble for a Surprise Relationship” or another misleading title to a story of lies.

Had she been able to, Margaery would have not left her bed at all. Yet, her full bladder weakened her resolve. With a groan, she finds a hoodie to slide over her tank top and pulls on a pair of leggings before dragging herself to the bathroom.

Because Margaery Tyrell is never one to back down from her problems once she resolves to face them, she goes downstairs rather than back to bed, fingers crossed that Alayne hasn’t returned yet. She’d like time to plan out what to say.

On this day, the Father sees fit to punish her. From the top of the steps, she sees Alayne sitting in the large black leather chair facing the stairs, her loyal dog sitting straight on the floor next to her. Her long legs crossover each other, and she’s holding up a newspaper. Margaery can clearly see her own stunned face, one arm clutching the other as Joffrey’s vein nearly pops off his head in the background on the cover. Taking a deep breath, Margaery walks down the steps. As she gets closer, Lady’s head jumps up. Her bushy tail wags slightly at the sight of Margaery. Alayne doesn’t move.

Not wanting to draw attention to herself, Margaery slinks into the kitchen. A pot of coffee already sits out, with the proper amount of sugar and creamer already set out for her. Margaery gulps. She doesn’t deserve someone as thoughtful as Alayne. She pours her cup and mixes everything together. There’s no avoiding this, so Margaery goes straight back to the living room.

Alayne’s chair has turned to face the couch. Knowing that that is where she will be intended to sit, Margaery takes the spot. She curls her legs underneath her and sips her coffee.

The moment she’s comfortable, Alayne stands up and strides in front of her. She holds up the front page next to her and looks furious. “What the fuck is this?!” she points to the front page photo.

“There was a small accident at the dinner party last night, and a desperate fake reporter twisted a story that doesn’t exist,” Margaery shrugs.

“I don’t even know where the fuck to begin Margaery,” Alayne runs her fingers through her dark hair. “Let me see your arm.”

“It’s fine, Alayne. Just some scratches.”

Alayne reaches out her arm. “Let me see it.”

Margaery sighs and rolls up her sleeve to unveil her forearm. The bandages are gone now. There are tiny cuts near the elbow with a long cut stretching lower down where a particularly large shard had skid across her skin. “I’m going to kill that damn bastard,” Alayne mutters.

“You’re not killing anyone. It was a little mistake that was my fault,” Margaery says. She doesn’t want to mention that Gendry was also there, less the boy have to face Alayne’s wrath as well.

“You lied to me,” Alayne says, eyes blazing.

“I didn’t lie to you,” Margaery sits forward. “I told you Mormont wanted me to go to this party and reel in some sources.”

                “We agreed that you weren’t going to go near Joffrey Baratheon.” spits Alayne. “How long have you been meeting with him behind my back?”

                “No. We agreed that you were being an arse around Joffrey that night at the bar.” Alayne opens her mouth to argue, but Margaery presses on. “He ran into Loras and me at lunch a couple weeks ago and I’ve been doing interviews with him since then. It’s been great for the story,” Alayne rolls her eyes at that comment. “I need Joffrey for this story to work. I don’t do it because I enjoy it.”

                Alayne scoffs. She flips the paper to the middle and all but tosses it in Margaery’s face. “You look pretty cozy there.”

                Margaery picks up the paper and looks it. At the bottom there’s a picture of her laughing with Joffrey’s arm around her shoulders. Damn Melisandre. “Alayne, this entire shit article is out of context. I kept him in his place. You need to control your jealousy.”

                “Jealousy?” snaps Alayne. She sits down next to Margaery and glares incredulously. “You think this is jealousy? Damn, Margaery. You don’t fucking get it. He. Is. A. Lannister. He will hurt you. I swear to the old gods the next time I see that prick he’s going to pray for the end. He is a twisted sadist, Marge and he preys on those who underestimate him. Stay away from him.”

                “What the hell would you know about him? He’s harmless, Alayne. He’s such an idiot, that there’s nothing to underestimate.”

Alayne stands up and looks down at Margaery. “Whatever. If you thought there was nothing wrong with him, you would have told me you were going to a Lannister hosted party. The fact that you didn’t proves you’re full of it. Until you can figure out what your facts are, I don’t want to talk.”

                “Alayne,” calls Marge after her girlfriend. Alayne ignores her and slams the door to her room, cementing her privacy.

                Alayne doesn’t speak to her the rest of the day and only comes out to eat and take Lady on a walk. Margaery knows she screwed up royally. She should have just shut up and apologized, rather than upset Alayne more. As she fields a call from Loras, who chews her out for not protecting herself better, she decides to make a sincere apology for Alayne. She bakes Alayne’s favorite desert, a lemon cake with cream cheese icing, and sets to work on an apology card. It’s probably stupid, but words on paper come as naturally as speaking, and gives her more time to think.

                When Alayne comes back with Lady, Margaery is still doing damage control, this time with Olenna. She wraps up the conversation quickly, promising that she does indeed have things under control and that she can work this to her advantage.

                As soon as she hangs up, she goes to find Alayne who is about to go back to her room.

                “Sweetling wait,” says Margaery.

                Alayne sighs and turns around.

                “I’m sorry,” Margaery says. “I was wrong to lie to you. If this wasn’t necessary to bust Cersei, I promise I wouldn’t be anywhere near Joffrey. And I don’t want you getting too close. I wasn’t trying to hurt you by lying, I was trying to protect you. And I was wrong to accuse you of jealousy.”

                Truly, she hadn’t been expecting much. Certainly not for Alayne to kiss her hard or pull her into a tight embrace. Still, a reaction of some sort seemed a given. Instead, Alayne ignores her and tugs away from her, going back to her room.

                Accepting that this will take some time, Margaery lets her go. When Alayne is ready, she’ll find her.

                When the cake is finished, she covers it up and leaves her note on top. At the very least, Alayne will have to acknowledge its existence to get to her beloved sweets.

                After dealing with her father, and distant acquaintances who apparently don’t realize how mundane being on the front page truly is, she receives one final text. She’s heading up to her room as she opens it, reading a simple sentence from Jorah: “Come to my office first thing.”

 

                Margaery is nervous as she walks up to Jorah’s office. She hasn’t been in his office when commanded like this since the day he interviewed her to become staff at the _Courier_. Still, she’s able to hide it well, smiling brightly at Sam, who gives her a piteous looks as she goes by. Obviously at least one person saw the Red Watch’s cover story yesterday.

                Margaery knocks and is immediately told “Come in.”

                She opens the door and shuts it behind her. Jorah’s office is barely more than a desk,a computer and chairs. The wood paneled walls, however, makes the office feel more like a freshly moved in to cabin and less like a prison’s visitor’s room.

                “Sit,” orders Jorah.

                Margaery pulls out the chair and flattens her short skirt to sit properly in the chair.

                Jorah takes a breath. “What happened, Tyrell?” His voice is steady and calm.

                Margaery explains the incident, minus the fact that she knew Gendry because that’s irrelevant.

                “What’s my motto, Tyrell?” he asks.

                Margaery has a snide remark she saves for moments like these, but using it now would be begging to join the unemployment line. “Write the story, don’t be the story.”

                “When your face lands on the front page of a rival newspaper, you are the story,” Jorah says.

                “Jorah, it was a freak accident-” Margaery begins.

                “Doesn’t matter. Everything you do until this story blows over will be newsworthy. When you go to get coffee, someone will be there. You want to interview Joffrey or another Lannister employee, you can be sure someone will notice you and alert another media organization. You can’t work and fulfill your job like this. Not to my standards.”

                Margaery scoots forward. “I can figure it out Jorah. Bumps make life interesting. That’s all this is. There will be another more worthwhile story by the end of the day.”

                Jorah shakes his head. “This is still a distraction to the newsroom. Other reporters will have to field questions from sources about you. Do you realize how ludicrous that is Tyrell? A reporter having to stave off public interest.” He pulls out a notebook and scans through it as he says, “Fifteen years as a newspaper manager and I’ve never dealt with a situation like this.”

                They sit in silence for a moment before Jorah snaps his book shut and sits it on the desk in front of Margaery. “It’s too much for my newsroom. You’re suspended, one week, half-pay.”

                Margaery mouth drops. “Jorah!”

                Mormont stands glares at her. “I don’t want to hear it Tyrell. You’ve played loose with the Lannisters and it’s no longer just a matter of safety. Learn how to keep your sources discreet.”

                Margaery gets up and glares back. “Jorah, this is ridiculous. I’m supposed to build a relationship with people. That’s half my job. You’re going to punish me for doing my job?”

                “No, I’m punishing you for being cocky!” he roars, then backs down. “You’re a great journalist Margaery, probably the best who has ever walked the halls in this building. I can’t keep up with you constantly straddling these lines. Don’t think of this as a punishment, think of it as a break. Work from home on Cersei, but I can’t have you here this week. Get whatever you need from your office, then give me your key. You’ll have it back Monday morning.”

                Margaery clenches her fist. How the hell was she supposed to work now, and coordinate with Renly? He had his jobs to do. Office hours was when they managed to collaborate and go over what they had, and that was usually only in the mornings, since Renly covered any night calls Jorah sent out. “Jorah,” she argues again, but he shuts her up.

                “Get what you need Tyrell or I will call security,” Jorah says.

                Margaery knows his threat is valid, and he knows she will push if she must. Clearly he remembers the time she got into a screaming match with him about whether to allow an anonymous source and had called Hodor, the guard, to carry her out of the building.

                Lovely as Hodor is, Margaery has no desire to deal with him today. She doesn’t want to deal with anyone, so with a twist of her heel, she strides out of his office and over to her own. She throws open the door and finds Renly gathering his camera and equipment.

                “Marge!” Renly exclaims. “Loras told me about what happened Saturday. Are you okay?”

                So far Renly is the only one of her family and friends to ask how she’s feeling. Everyone else is so wrapped up in the ramifications or in how it makes her look. His thoughtfulness manages to crack a brittle smile from her. “I’m doing okay, thanks.”

                “I just got in early this morning, but once I get back from my meeting with Myranda, I was thinking we could  go over everything we both gathered during my trip. I’ve got some big stuff, Marge. You have to see the doc-”.

                Margaery grabs her address booklet and spare notebooks. “I’d love to Renly, but I can’t. I can’t be here at all this week, not in the office. Mormont suspended me.”

                “For that little accident? That’s bullshit Marge.”

                Margaery shrugs. She’s still furious, but nothing can change her circumstances. “Try telling Mormont.”

                “Jeez, had I known he would do that, I would have left my afternoon open. I have a shoot for some extra cash though, and I desperately need sleep,” Renly says.

                Margaery waves him off. “Do what you need to know. See when you’re free tomorrow and we can go over your trip then.” She takes her bag and gives him a quick hug. “Take care of Loras, okay. He’s been a worrying mess without you.”

                Renly smiles. “I will. I’ll call you later.”

                Without an assignment to work on and without any new information from Renly, Margaery finds herself with nothing to do. Going back to Alayne’s house (not her own house; the atmosphere felt too cold to call it home) was out of the question. She couldn’t bear another awkward run in with Alayne right now. Loras was in the middle of his shift. With one option left, Margaery dials her best friend’s number.

                On the third ring Ygritte answers, “What’s up?” In the background, beeping and blaster noises that sound like a videogame blare.

                “Ygritte, when do you work today?” Margaery asks.

                “I’m doin’ the night shift tonight. Why? Ya need something?”

                “Do you mind if I come over now? I really need to talk,” Margaery says.

                “Yeah, sure. Front door will be unlocked,” says Ygritte.

                “Thanks, hon. I’ll see you in five minutes,” Margaery hangs up and drives over.

                As promised, Margaery arrives promptly in five minutes. She takes her jacket in with her, knowing that Ygritte and Jon love keeping the apartment inhumanely cold. She can still hear the loud video game noises through the front door. She knocks lightly to let them know she’s arrived, and lets herself in.

                In hindsight, she should have known coming to Ygritte was bad idea. Many times she had walked into the apartment in the afternoon to hear Jon and Ygritte doing it in Ygritte’s room. They at least had the curtesy to have a physical barrier between Margaery’s eyes and their humping.

                Apparently having “their own space” had given them even greater liberty to screw anywhere and everywhere. So seeing Ygritte naked, bent over the back of the couch with Jon behind her, equally bare, screwing hard didn’t traumatize Margaery as it would have done most people. What did her in was that Ygritte was holding a video game controller and playing some space invaders video game while committing the act.

                Immediately, Margaery ducked her head into her forearm. “Bless the Maiden Ygritte! What the hell are you doing?!”

                “MARGAERY!?” Jon screams. She hears a stumbling sound and something hit a wall.

                “Hey! I almost had a new personal best!” cries Ygritte.

                Margaery hears footsteps run to one of the rooms and a door slam. When she opens her eyes, Ygritte has her shirt on and underwear as she scours the floor for her pants.

                “What the hell is wrong with you?! I told you I’d be here in five minutes!” Margaery slams herself onto the couch.

                Having found her pants, Ygritte slides down next to Margaery. “Jon wanted a quickie. I thought five minutes would be enough time.”

                “Then you shouldn’t have told me to come on in. And video games? Seriously?!” Margaery cups her face in her hands and groans.

                “I was really sure I’d have him off in time. Plus, I do best in this game with an added adrenaline rush,” Ygritte grins cheekily as Margaery looks at her incredulously.

                “Gods, you’re so weird,” Margaery mutters.

                Looking like a shy little lamb with a sunburn on its cheeks, Jon comes out of his room. “Hey Margaery. Wasn’t expecting you,” he says.

                Margaery glares at Ygritte. “You didn’t even tell the poor boy I was on my way?”

                Ygritte shrugs. “It didn’t seem important at the time.”

                “My apologies, Jon. Had I known what I’d be walking into, believe me, I’d have just gone home instead,” Margaery says.

                Jon bows his head, partially in acknowledgement and partially in embarrassment.

                “Because now you have new filthy ideas you want to try with Alayne, don’t you?” Ygritte wiggles her eyebrows.

                “Actually…” Margaery says. She gives Ygritte a look and Ygritte immediately nods. Over their time together, they perfected the girl code signal.

                “Out,” Ygritte points at Jon, then points to the front door.

                “What?” Jon asks, surprised.

                “Out,” repeats Ygritte. “This is girl time.”

                “Oh, come on. I’m not even going to listen. I still need to eat, Ygritte,” Jon says.

                Ygritte stands up. “Take a drive to McWaller’s and eat. You’re too closely affiliated with the topic of conversation. Get out before I destroy your collection of Vinyl rock records.”

                Ygritte takes Jon by the arm and guides him to the front door. “Get me some deodorant while you’re out. I’m almost out.” She shoves him out the door and smiles smugly as she comes back to Margaery.

                “You’re so mean to him,” says Margaery. “Why does he put up with it?”

                Ygritte shrugs. “I figure I’m just amazing. That and he has a thing for strong women who can kick his ass in darts, yet still fuck him senseless. Anyway, what’s the trouble in paradise?”

                Margaery sighs. “Alayne’s upset about the dinner party.”

                Ygritte snorts. “That’s it? Who wouldn’t be mad about that? You’ve been hiding talking to Joffrey from her for weeks. Anyone would be pissed at that.”

                “I know. But she wouldn’t even look at me after we argued about it. She still hasn’t even looked straight at me since yesterday morning. And she told me she loved me the day before.”

                “Marge, she’s already told you that. Hello,” Ygritte says.

                “This was time was different, Ygritte. She said it straight to my face, no letters and I was fully conscious. And I didn’t say a word back.”

                “Ya know what I think? I think you’re feeling guilty about all this Lannister stuff and sneaking behind her back. Your fear comes from your guilt, I’d bet.”

                Margaery knew that wasn’t true, because she didn’t truly feel guilty. Sorry for having hurt Alayne, yes, but not sorry for the actions themselves. If she could guarantee that Alayne stayed unharmed by any consequences that could come from her dalliances with the Stark mob and the Lannisters, Margaery would do it all again.

                Ygritte puts an arm around Margaery. “Oh Marge. You two were bound to have a row eventually. You’ve apologized, right?” Margaery nods. “She’ll come around. And then you two will have great make up sex and you’ll make her come so hard she forgets her name, let alone why she was even mad at you to begin with.”

                Margaery presses her forehead down on Ygritte’s shoulder and smiles. Ygritte always knows how to cheer her up. “Also, Jorah suspended me for what happened Saturday.”

                Ygritte pulls her arm back. “That wasn’t even your fault! Damnit, I always hated that blonde hardass, suave, tan hunk.”

                Margaery shakes her head. “That was the kindest insult I’ve ever heard about an employer.”

                “Just because I think he’s one of the most shag-worthy men in this country does not mean I wouldn’t pound in his face over this if you asked me too. You don’t want me to though do ya? Cause I don’t think it would help keep your job.”

                Margaery shakes her head. “It is what it is. I can spend more time wearing down some ex-L&C employees and maybe try Cersei again. Jorah might be doing me a favor.”

                Ygritte nods toward the screen. “Want to play til Jon comes back?”

                “I suck at video games. Why would you want to play against me?” Margaery groans.

                Ygritte reaches for a controller and tosses it to Margaery, which Margaery miraculously catches. “Because it’s one of the three things I can do better than you. Video games, archery, and sleeping through alarm clocks.”

                Margaery jiggles the joy stick. “I might as well get my ass kicked. I’ve got nothing better to do right now.”

                In the end, Margaery didn’t lose every time (although that was because Jon let her win a few times after he came back. Ygritte was ruthless). Finally, she convinces herself to go back to Alayne’s house.

                Once again, Alayne isn’t there. From the depths of her memory, Margaery recalls that Alayne mentioned teaching a new bartender the ropes tonight before she had left on her conference with Petyr. At least that meant that when she returned, Alayne couldn’t so easily avoid her.

                One bond seemed to mend well through the evening. Lady had avoided her most of the day yesterday, tending to Alayne’s needs and sticking by her side. Now, however, Lady turned back into a cuddle monster with her. Her giant head kept finding its way into Margaery’s lap, preventing her from continuing her draft of the Lannister article. Work-wise, the day had been a total waste.

                Giving up on getting anything done, Margaery appeased the beast and stoked her furry belly and ears as she caught up on “Dunk and Egg”. She and Alayne used to watch it every week, but it had been sacrificed as their schedules filled up.

                Episode after episode goes by and it makes her miss Alayne more. She misses her commentary on how funny Dunk’s accent is and how ludicrous the plot is. Having spent so much time in Alayne’s presence recently, she never imagined how much more emotional detachment could hurt than physical detachment from her girlfriend.

                After the fourth straight episode, the doorbell rings. Lady barks and jumps off the couch. Margaery’s legs had been furled beneath the dog, so it takes her a moment to revive enough sensation in them to answer the door. The doorbell rings again.

                “I’m coming!” shouts Margaery. Who the hell would knock at this late of an hour? It was after midnight.

                Margaery opens the door. “Petyr, what are you-?”

                Before she can finish her question, Alayne stumbles into her.

                Petyr clears his throat. “Alayne decided to take off of work early and share a few drinks with Shae. Shae called me to come get her after eighth shot.”

                “Move, Marge,” Alayne tries to shove through her, but is uncoordinated and can’t do do anything but lean over her.

                “Thanks, Petyr,” Margaery says. “I can take care of her from here.”

                “Please do,” he quickly turns away and heads back to his car.

                “Why is everything spinning?” slurs Alayne. She tries to take another step and stumbles again.

                “Slow down, sweetling,” Margaery grits out as she supports both her and Alayne’s weights, guiding Alayne to the couch.

                “I’m not your sweetling,” mutters Alayne. “I’m mad at you.”

                Margaery manages to help Alayne make it to the couch, and slowly drops her down. She’s finally able to take a good look at Alayne. She’s wearing her “Wolves” shirt and black tight pants. Her hair is askew and there’s a bandage on her revealed shoulder. “I know. I’m sorry, honey.”

                Her head spins toward Margaery and blood shot blue eyes glare at her. “No you’re not. You’re full of shit.”

                “Alayne, I really am sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Margaery says softly. Though she hadn’t planned on having this conversation now, she’ll do it anyway.

                Alayne scoffs. “You-you. Of course you didn’t. You’re so fucking perfect, you couldn’t hurt a gnat. Lying was just another way of getting what you wanted.”

                Margaery sighs and goes to the kitchen for a glass of water. Upon her return she holds it out to her dazed looking girlfriend. Her eyes narrow further. “I don’t want that poisoned trash. You probably manipulated that too.”

                Margaery places the glass on the table. “Alayne that doesn’t even make sense. Let me help you to bed, and then I’ll let you be, okay?”

                Alayne crosses her arms over her chest. “No. I’m fine here.”

                Margaery tries to pull her up. “Sweetling, let me help you.”

                Alayne stands up and wobbles. “Doh- Don’t keep trying to manipulate me. You can’t manipulate me like you do all your little helpers.”

                Margaery puts a hand on Alayne’s back and gently guides her toward her bedroom. “I’m not manipulating anyone.”

                Alayne stops and turns to Margaery. She barks a laugh in Margaery’s face. “You manipulate everyone. That’s why you have no friends, no real friends. They all see through your schemes and tire of being your play things. Except Joffrey.”

                The jab hurts. Margaery stops , and so does Alayne. Her eyes look almost venomous.

                “Do you think that’s true? That I try to manipulate everyone?” Margaery asks. Yes, she does use manipulation as a tool on her uncooperative sources, but she’s never intentionally tried to manipulate Alayne.

                “Of course it is! You manipulate Joffrey and me and Jaime and Joffrey.”

                Margaery tries to hold Alayne’s hand. Alayne snatches it back and stumbles back a step.

                “Alayne, I know I hurt you by not telling you about seeing Joffrey, but I’ve never tried to manipulate you.”

                “You do it all the time!” Alayne spits. “I used to think you were being cute when you put off moving in with me. But that was all a game, wasn’t it? And you fucking toy with my emotions. You say sweet shit and chivvvarieouss things, but you don’t mean it. All you want is for me to stay out of your precious work.”

                Margaery stands straighter and takes Alayne by the wrists. “Alayne, you know that’s not true.”

                “Do I? Because you sure as hell don’t feel the way I feel about you. How could you though? You have no emotions.” Alayne shoves her off and staggers into her room, slamming the door behind her.

                All the weight from the day collapses on Margaery as the door clicks shut. 

               

 

               

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	11. Renly's Revelation

Puffy red eyes stare back at her in the mirror. Margaery tries to ignore them as she carefully applies her mascara, twirling the brush up give her eyelashes an extra flare. Between the crying she had done before falling asleep and the tears she shed in the shower, she hopes that no more will be able to come for the next few hours.

She had been able to hold them back long enough to prepare for bed, but once she laid in her bed with only her thoughts as company, Alayne’s words sank in. This situation was her fault. She must not have shown Alayne she cared about her as much as she thought she had.

Alayne believed her hesitance was born from a lack of affection, which certainly wasn’t true. For weeks, Margaery couldn’t name what it was that held her back from taking these steps. Finally, while she cried, she figured it out. She had been afraid of getting hurt, not wanting Alayne too close and open herself up to the pain she had seen others experience because they let themselves be vulnerable around someone else. She’d seen it enough times in her sources, had been the cause of it a few times. Her self-preservation was hurting Alayne, though. That felt worse than any pain Alayne had ever inflicted on her, until last night.

Her accusations of being emotionless and friendless opened new wounds. Hundreds of acquaintances marched in and out of Margaery’s life, and none ever stayed long. Her longest friendship had been as a child, and once Elinor moved away, there was no one to fill that role. She could converse with anyone and be likeable, but no one ever stuck around. Even now, she was well aware her friendship with Ygritte was the way it was because they had lived together for so long. Given a year or so, that might fade away as well.

As distraught as Margaery feels, she’s also frustrated with Alayne. What good did drinking away her anger do? Margaery had given her every opportunity to talk on Sunday, but she ignored her. She could have come straight home and told Margaery exactly what she was feeling, but she didn’t. She chose to hang out with Shae and make Margaery feel like shit. She had no right to make her feel these conflicting emotions.

Although her eyes are still slightly red, she looks far more presentable than she had thirty minutes ago. She spritzes a hint of vanilla perfume around her for a final touch and leaves the bathroom.

Downstairs, she goes to the kitchen, needing to grab her charging phone before she heads out. As Margaery walks through the entrance, clawed paws scramble to attention on the bamboo flooring.

“You’re still here?” asks Alayne, sounding slightly husky from her late night. She doesn’t sound bitter, but slightly surprised.

Margaery unplugs her phone, then looks at Alayne. Holding her head up with one hand while nursing a cup of coffee, Alayne’s hangover is exacting revenge. She’s still wearing the wolves shirt, still wearing the bandage on her shoulder. She also has Margaery’s sweatpants on. Her dark hair looks wild fringing in different directions. Her eyes are slightly bloodshot.

“Since Mormont suspended me, I don’t exactly need to be running to the office at the break of dawn,” Margaery says with a little more bite than she intends.

Alayne’s eyes widen a little. “He suspended you? Why didn’t you tell me?” The words have hardly left her mouth when she drops her head to her hands. Memory has a way of popping up at the most opportune times. She raises her head again and stares at Margaery. Her piercing eyes sparkle with sorrow as her brows furrow.

“Marge, you’ve been crying.” She gets up and slowly approaches Margaery, with Lady shadowing her. “Is this… gods I was such an ass. Margaery, I didn’t mean what I said last night. I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t drunk.”

Margaery slides past her before she can get too close and leaves the kitchen. “You’re entitled to feel whatever it is you feel, sweetling. You made those feelings obvious.”

She picks out a pair of boots from the closet.

Alayne stops next to the couch. “I thought you weren’t going to the office.”

Margaery pulls on one boot. “I’m not. I’m getting coffee with Renly.”

“Can we please talk? I forgive you for the stuff with Joffrey, babe, but I want to talk about it,” Alayne squats down next to her and reaches out her hand to brush Margaery’s cheek. Margaery pulls back reflexively. “I’m sorry, Margaery.”

“Why?” Margaery can feel the tears returning, the loss of control frustrating her once more. “It’s not like you thought you’d be hurting my feelings. You can’t hurt something that doesn’t exist.”

Margaery gets up and goes back into the closet, careful not to look in Alayne’s direction. She hears Alayne scramble to her feet after her. “Marge, I didn’t mean that. I was cross and drunk and-”

The pressure of her frustration with herself, Mormont and Alayne overflows into tears brimming around Margaery’s eyes. She spins around, no longer caring about keeping her emotions under control.

“And that gives you the right to make me feel like garbage?! I get it! I fucked up! And I understand you needed your space to think about it and to get away from me. Gods, I get it and I’m sorry that I hurt you. I never meant to, I just wanted to keep you safe while I got what I needed for my story. But everything you said last night was meant to hurt, and believe it or not, you fucking succeeded okay! Congratulations!”

Margaery pulls her arms through jacket sleeves, needing the feel of something familiar. She grabs her bag off the closet floor and walks toward the front door.

“Margaery,” Alayne whispers, sounding smaller than Margaery has ever heard her.

Margaery fights the urge to look back. She’s too raw, too vulnerable. “I’m late. If you’ll excuse me, I need to go.”

She makes it to the car before she gives in to the sobs that have been growing within her. The mess is her fault and her burden. There’s nothing more she can do to apologize though, to make Alayne see that she truly regrets having hurt her, and she doesn’t want to show just how deeply Alayne’s words hurt her last night. Breaking down in front of her a woman who never cries herself, despite being an open book emotionally, is worse than the breakdown she’s having now.

By the time she reaches the coffee shop, the hum of the engine and the smooth rumbling of the car as it rolls along the road has soothed her tears. She checks herself in the car mirror before going in.

From the far corner beside the front window, Renly waves Margaery over. He holds up two coffee cups and smiles as she slides into the booth.

“French Vanilla, extra sugar?” asks Margaery.

Renly nods. “Only the best for Queen Margaery.” He smiles teasingly.

Margaery glares playfully. “Remember that next time I tell you to do something.” She moans as she gulps the drink. It nearly burns her tongue, but she doesn’t care. “How was Winterfell?”

“Straight to business I suppose,” Renly mutters under his breath. “Well, it’s colder than your grandmother during the holidays there. And the people are equally distant. I’ve never met a people so allergic to conversation. Those Northerners are suspicious of even the slightest comment.”

“Given what they believe about the Starks, that doesn’t surprise me. Every northerner I’ve talked to has an ‘us versus them’ attitude,” Margaery sips her coffee. Gods, Renly got the perfect vanilla-sugar ratio.

“They have good reason, Marge,” Renly leans closer, lowering his voice to a whisper, despite he and Marge being the only two customers in the shop. “Reed got me those original documents of the ones that the police department blacked out.”

“How did he get them?” Margaery asks.

“He did the blotting. Part of it anyway. When I showed him our copy, he said that there were parts that he didn’t black out.”

“He worked for the Starks, though.” Margaery whispers. “Why would he just hand over those originals. His boss wanted something to remain unknown if he went through all that trouble.”

“The Lannisters were just as desperate to hide something else. I didn’t question his motive, Marge, I just took what the man gave me,” Renly sips his own espresso, looking pleased with his work.

Margaery furrows her brow in thought. “Always question the motive, Renly. It’s likely he just wants to see Cersei crumble. He’s willing to sacrifice whatever the Starks’s associates thought so valuable at the time to achieve it. But we have to be careful with them.”

Renly nods. “What I found Margaery…, if it’s true, it’s the story of the decade.”

Always on the lookout for a major break, Margaery’s ears perk. “Do tell.”

Renly leans in closer, nearly laying across the table to reach Margaery’s ear. “The Starks… not all of them died in that fire.”

“Don’t play games, Renly.”

His voice becomes more urgent. “Marge this is the truth. I read Reed’s report. Part of what was blacked out mentioned that specifically five bodies were recovered.”

“Yes, because two evaporated to dust.” Margaery repeats the explanation that had been told thousands of times across Westeros. Her heart thumps with the knowledge that she could be wrong. She wants to be wrong, because this could be the story to end all stories.

“I was curious about that, so I went to the lab that analyzed the remains of the house. I had requested that a different scientist retest the sample that confirmed that the ashes from the house included human DNA,” Renly pulls out a piece of paper from his brief case and slides it across the table to Margaery.

She reads through it, dissecting the last paragraph thoroughly: “Sample includes wood, metal, clothing debris, but no human DNA. Results may need further testing.”

“The Stark girls are alive,” Margaery whispers, dumbfounded.

“This is our story Marge, as much as Cersei is. I picked up other documents that The Spider referred me to, and I haven’t looked at those yet, but if they are anything as damning as that…”

Margaery holds out her arm. “Let me have them. I have plenty of time to go through them. And whatever else the Lannisters and Starks were hiding in that report must be massive as well.”

Her mind is buzzing, running rampid with new angles for the story, how to incorporate the Stark girls into it. The mixture of caffeine and adrenaline has her nearly shaking in anticipation. “Did you find anything on Cersei?”

“No. Nothing I’ve gone through anyway. There may be something the Spider was able to send along.”

                If ever Margaery was glad for her grandmother’s connections with Varys “The Spider”, it was now. He had been Olenna’s top advisor during her years in the Senate. Varys knew everyone who mattered, and when he didn’t he made it a priority to associate with them. She knew that Varys’s help was as a favor to her grandmother, and she embraced it all the same.

                “As you know, I met Lioness Lannister over the weekend.” Margaery watches Renly finish his coffee.

                “What was she like?” he asks.

                She sits back. “Charming. Intelligent. Faker than Loras’s “suede” shoes.”

                “I assume that means she didn’t give you anything of use.”

                “She did. She gave me an opening. That’s plenty for one night.”

                Renly shrugs. “If you say so.”

                “It’s a long game Renly. There’s time for Cersei. This Starks though… we need to find solid proof. Find where they are.”

                “As helpful as Reed has been, I don’t think he’s going to sell out those girls any more than he already has. He was torn enough to give me that document.”

                Margaery finishes her coffee. “Howland has done his part. I’ll talk to Varys, he may know a few more Stark associates.

                Renly gets out of the booth and offers a hand to Margaery. “Should I work on getting a formal interview with Cersei, then?”

                Margaery takes his hand and gets up. “You can try. She may not respond. The woman loathes the Courier. Being informal may be the way to reach her.”

                They leave the shop and he walks to Margaery’s car with her. “How are things with the girlfriend?”

                She gives him a side-glance. He sighs and wraps his arm around her. “It will get better.”

                “Don’t talk to Loras about her. I don’t want to bail her out because Loras decided to abuse his power.”

                Renly holds his hands up. “You haven’t actually said anything, so there’s nothing to tell him.”

                Margaery smirks. “Call me if you find anything.” She gives her co-worker a light hug. “Good luck.”

                “Likewise to you. I’ll tell Loras you’re doing well.”

                Margaery smiles back gratefully and starts her car. Returning to the house, her mood is much lighter than it was when she left.

                The second she walks into the house, she hears water begin running from Alayne’s bathroom. She bends down and unzips her boots, in the perfect position for Lady to run toward her and knock her into the closet as a greeting.

                Margaery catches herself on the door. “Ow! Down Lady!”

                Knowing that she had done a no no, Lady obediently sits and whimpers. This allows Margaery to finish pulling off her boots. Margaery scratches Lady’s ear. “Good girl.”

                The water running in the bathroom turns off. A moment later, Margaery’s phone buzzes with a new text. “Come to the bathroom.”

                She takes her time removing her jacket and hanging it up, as well as putting down her purse. The stack of papers Renly brought her sticks out of her purse, begging to be taken to safety. Margaery picks them up and takes them upstairs. Another text makes her phone buzz again, but Margaery ignores it. She puts them on the side table next to her bed and considers starting the deciphering immediately when another text sends her phone buzzing.

                Finally, she looks at them. “Margaery please come to the bathroom.” “It’s important, love.”

                The petty part of her doesn’t want to go. Let Alayne stew over what she has to say. The last thing Margaery wants is for her to go off on her again. Yet, the situation is Margaery’s fault, and Margaery has never been one to cower from confrontation. She drags herself down the stairs and to Alayne’s bedroom to get to the connected en suite bathroom.

                Shadows from flickering candlelight play on the peach painted wall beside the sink. The mixture of floral scented candles and what Margaery recognizes as her lavender scented bubble bath wafts through the room. Sunlight filters through the window blinds and illuminates the soap bubbles floating below the rim of the tub. Covered in bubbles, Alayne lays in the tub, head tilted to the side, staring at Margaery. Her beautiful almost black hair is clipped up off of her neck..

                Slowly, Margaery comes to the center of the bathroom. “What did you need?” Margaery asks,  letting her voice bite harshly.

                Alayne ignores it. “Take a bath with me.”

                Margaery glances up to the ceiling. “I don’t have time for this. I thought you’d have something to say.”

                “I do have something to say. Get in the tub so I can say it,” Alayne says.

                Margaery stands there for a moment, neither woman breaking their resolve. Finally, Margaery lets go and unbuttons her shirt. In all their time together, Margaery has never stripped herself in front of Alayne. Her gut tightens as she takes off her bra and bends down to take off her pants. She glances up to see Alayne dart out her tongue and lick her lips. Alayne may have had innocent intentions, but those seem to be corrupted.

                Margaery steps over the edge of the tub and almost groans when her toes touch the water. It’s scalding, just the way she likes it. She sits between Alayne’s legs, but doesn’t lean back. Behind her, Alayne shifts. Alayne brushes Margaery’s hair over one shoulder. The water splashes lightly behind her, and then she feels hot water glide down her back. Her back arches forward reflexively at the sudden sensation. Alayne scoops up another handful of water and dribbles it down Margaery’s back. She can feel built up tension slowly release from the soothing action.

                She lets Alayne pull her back against her as she leans against the back of the tub. Her breasts are like a pillow for Margaery’s upper back. Despite her relaxed state, Margaery remains stiff. As if to coerce her further into relaxing, Margaery feels Alayne’s thumb rub up and down over her rib cage as her other thumb makes soothing circles over her stomach.

                They sit in silence for a long time. She’s missed Alayne’s touch. Gentle and soft and always deliberate. Margaery closes her eyes and relaxes into the steamy water and welcoming body beneath her, forgetting the purpose of this rendezvous. She welcomes the vulnerability that she had run from hours ago.

                A soft kiss to her cheek brings Margaery back to reality. She turns her head and opens her eyes to familiar icy blue ones. “I’m sorry, Marge. I can’t take back those horrendous things I said, but I wish I’d never said them. I… I never thought I could hurt you like that.”

                Margaery shifts, trying to scoot away from Alayne, but there’s nowhere to go. “Where did it all come from?”

                Alayne raises her eyebrows, confused.

                “Not all of what you said came from being drunk. So what did I do to cause that reaction?”

                Alayne looks down at the bubbles. One hand drops beneath the water, but the other tightens around Margaery’s waist. “I’ve been used in the past. Manipulated. They used me then betrayed me.” Alayne looks up to Margaery. “I know you’re different, but you manipulate people so easily. It scares me. I trust you. I love you, and… but…”

                Margaery scoots back over Alayne, leaning into her side. “You’re scared because I haven’t said it back.”

                Alayne bites her lip and looks to the window.

                “Alayne, this is unfamiliar to me, being so close to someone. I’m just as terrified as you, sweetling. I shouldn’t have lied about interviewing Joffrey. We have to be able to trust each other. Know that I do care about you, deeply. I’m not, I want to be sure of what I feel for you. I don’t want to set you up for disappointment.”

                Alayne looks at her. “Are you still upset about last night?”

                Margaery sits up. “Yes. What good did getting drunk with Shae do?”

                “None. I had a massive hangover this morning,” Alayne says.

                “I know,” says Margaery. “I wish you had talked to me about it, about all of it. We have to rebuild our trust.”

                Alayne sits forward and covers Margaery’s chest with her arms. “I have an idea to start with.”

                Margaery cranes her neck to look at her.

                “I want to go with you on a meeting with Joffrey.”

                “Sweetling, you can’t. Not only is he a source for my story, he also hates you.”

                Alayne scoffs. “How could anyone hate me?”

                Margaery turns over and gently pushes Alayne back against the tub. “I have no idea. You’re perfect. I think he’s jealous.”

                Margaery scoots up, sliding her chest against Alayne’s chest and kisses her. Alayne cups her face, then pulls away. “Please.” This time she pulls Margaery in for a kiss, tilting her head to deepen the kiss.

                She needs Alayne’s trust. So she breaks her rule. “Okay. I’ll see what I can do.”

                Alayne kisses her again, just as determined as before. As the water cools, their kisses become lazier, sloppier as Alayne soothingly scratches Margaery’s scalp with her fingers tangled in Margaery’s hair. Until Margaery breaks away and rests her head on Alayne’s shoulder. The skin feels rougher than normal. Margaery moves back and looks down. Her shoulder is peeling over a tattoo shapes like a rose with her name underlining it.

                “I got it over the weekend, while I was at the conference. Surprise.” Alayne smiles shyly.

                “It’s gorgeous. I knew it would be,” Margaery pecks it carefully.

                “Because you’re so gorgeous?” Alayne jests.

                “More like, because you have great tastes and would rip apart anyone who gave you a bad tattoo.” Margaery shivers. The water has turned lukewarm. While that’s ideal temperature for Alayne, it’s below Margaery’s tolerance. “It’s getting cold. I think we should get out.”

                Margaery turns over, only to be pulled backward by Alayne. The bubbles are half gone now, and she can see Alayne’s breast through the water, her n. “I think it’s the perfect temperature.” Her hand deliberately brushes over Margaery’s nipple.

                “But it’s cold,” Margaery whines. “Wouldn’t you rather wrap ourselves in blankets and snuggle on the couch?” She tilts her head back and stretches upward to capture Alayne’s lips with her own.

                She smiles as she feels Alayne sigh into the kiss. She’s won. She stands up and helps Alayne up. They dry off and put on comfort clothes, which consist of Margaery’s sweatpants and a tank top for Alayne and an oversized shirt from Willas for Margaery.

                Margaery reclines back against the arm and lets Alayne cuddle on top of her before she covers them with a blanket. Alayne finally takes the clip out of her hair and shakes it out. As Alayne searches for a movie to watch, Margaery rakes her hands through the long locks she loves so much.

                “What do you think of the Starks?” she blurts out.

                Alayne raises herself up on her elbows. “What?”

                “Were they different from the Lannisters, or just the same beast in disguise?” Margaery asks, staring all the while at her fingers playing with Alayne’s hair. “Just as devious and cunning?”

                “Why are you concerned about them?” Alayne prods.

                Margaery bites her tongue. With such fresh information, she shouldn’t go there. It would break yet another rule. Still, she wants Alayne to know she trusts her. Sacrificing work for a relationship is an act Margaery never imagined committing, yet here she is. “I learned something today, and… I need you to keep this between us.”

                Alayne pinches her eyes in concern. “What is it, babe?”

                Margaery takes a deep breath. Her gut gnaws at her, telling her to shut up, but doesn’t bother her as much as the knowledge of Alayne’s confessions earlier. “Renly stumbled across evidence that there were survivors from the Stark fire.”

                Initially, Alayne doesn’t react. Then she cups Margaery’s cheek. “The Starks are dead. It’s one less mafia to worry about. Remember that conspiracy theory documentary we watched a while ago? That guy spent thousands of dollars and three years trying to prove that Starks survived, and he made a fool of himself. Not all leads are true baby.” Alayne nuzzles her head against Margaery’s neck. “Stop trying to throw me into a panic. Protecting you from crazy Lannisters is hard enough without mixing ghosts into it.”


	12. Toeing the Line

 

Margaery spent two days meticulously reading every document and report Renly had collected in Winterfell.

Some repeated information that Margaery already knew, such as the merger contract that fell through between the Starks and Robert Baratheon. Yet there were a few noteworthy pieces of information.

The police report mentions a green residue in the Stark’s kitchen and a struggle evident in the driveway. The metal doorframe was dented, supposedly in a way that only a heavy blunt object could produce.

Without DNA evidence, nothing can be certain.

Also of note was a hotel bill from Wintertown Inn. It was crumpled and partially torn, but it was evidence that Cersei Lannister was in the North at the time of the Stark deaths, contradicting reports that Cersei had been visiting her daughter at a boarding school in Dorne at the time.

Slowly, Margaery accrues circumstantial evidence necessary to prove her claim. Yet, she is a journalist, not a prosecutor. She knows she must be fair to Cersei, as much as she abhors the thought of giving the woman a platform. If she keeps ignoring Margaery’s offers though, then that is Cersei’s loss. A response, though, would fortify her story.

Margaery and Alayne stand beside the museum help desk, waiting for Joffrey. The Lannisters were unveiling the new Medieval museum and Joffrey had extended an invitation to Margaery. She coerced him into giving her a ticket for a guest as an “apology” for Saturday’s mishap.

“I wonder if they have one room dedicated to torture devices. No, it’s probably multiple rooms,” says Alayne. She tries to act nonchalant by checking her nails.

“You said you’d play nice if I brought you,” Margaery reminds her.

Alayne twirls a strand of Margaery’s hair around her finger. “I am playing nice. I promise not to bite him.”

“Mmm-hmmm,” Margaery hums.

“Don’t be sarcastic with me,” says Alayne. She leans down and pecks Margaery on the lips. “I keep my word.”

 She leans lower, pressing her lips to Margaery’s neck. Margaery shuts her eyes. Teeth graze softly against her skin, trailing to her pulse point. When Alayne sucks hard at her pulse point, Margaery hisses. In public, she hadn’t been expecting Alayne to be so bold. Not that being in public had ever stopped Alayne before, but they weren’t at the club. This was foreign territory.

“Margaery,” calls Joffrey.

Margaery opens her eyes and pulls away from Alayne. Margaery glares at Alayne. She was learning too well. But Alayne feigns innocence, smugly smiling at Joffrey.

The smug look disappears when her eyes flit to Joffrey’s side. Margaery looks over and sees Joffrey, flanked by Bronn, half-grinning back at them.

When he stops in front of them, Joffrey takes Margaery’s hand and kisses it elegantly. “Ms. Tyrell.” He frowns at the newly minted mark on Margaery’s neck. “You might want to cover that, my lady. Some people may get the wrong idea.”

His voice draws Alayne’s attention away from Joffrey’s new handyman and back to the situation at hand. “Or they’ll get the correct idea.” She kisses Margaery’s cheek.

“Joffrey, you remember Alayne, my girlfriend,” says Margaery.

“Right,” says Joffrey. He looks Alayne up and down, then immediately turns his attention back to Margaery. “This is Bronn, my new bodyguard.”

Bronn sticks out his hand. “Pleasure,” he greets.

Margaery shakes it.

Bronn turns to Alayne. “Ms. Stone. Good to see you.”

Alayne takes his hand. “And you. Found a job that will hire felons, have you?”

“Joffrey is quite open-minded and forgiving in areas where other people lack,” he says.

“You know each other?” asks Joffrey.

“He worked for me recently,” says Alayne.

An awkward silence follows as Joffrey glares at Alayne and Alayne glares Bronn.

Margaery clears her throat, presses her hand against the small of Alayne’s back and smiles brightly at Joffrey, “Should we begin?”

“Of course.” He loops his arm around Margaery’s free arm and guides her on. Maintaining her own claim on Margaery, Alayne wraps her arm around Margaery’s waist. Long strides keep her pace with Joffrey’s quick steps. She feels like the toy that two vicious hands play tug-of-war with.

They stop at a reconstruction of King Aegon I’s burning of Harrenhal.  The massive dragons looked realistic. Scales painted to look reptilian, but still pliable, like snake skin. Balerion could have flown around the plexiglass encasement and Margaery would have believed it was the real thing.

“They say Aegon fed his enemies to the dragons. Without them he never would have conquered Westeros. They ravaged every kingdom,” Joffrey beams at the mannequin of his hero.

“Not Dorne,” says Margaery.

Joffrey looks at her, then back to the dragons. “That was Rhaenys’s fault. She suffered rightfully for her failure. Like Sansa Stark and her family.”

Margaery turns to Alayne. She doesn’t react. Instead, she stares at Rhaenys riding Meraxes.

Displays of the dragon age fill the main room. The great beasts hang high in the rafters, secure on their tight ropes and harnesses. Below them, charred cities, farms, and a replica of early King’s Landing sprawl out. It’s a condensed version of what the world must have looked like those hundreds of years ago.

“Aegon the Conqueror knew how to wield power,” Margaery says off-hand as she looks at the largest display: Balerion burning the halls of Harrenhal.

Joffrey turns to her and smirks. “Aegon was a great conqueror. I would have been greater. Had he done as he would rather than listen to his sisters, Aegon could have conquered Dorne as well as the land beyond the Wall. Bloody Wildlings would have shit themselves at the marvel of his power.” He steps closer to Margaery. She glances at him. “Power can do many things. Conquer cities. Bring nations into submission just by the presence of a powerful man. Drop women to their knees. I agree, what made Aegon great was his power. No one ever took it from him.” He brushes his hand against her arm as she lightly holds the railing protecting the display. She read in between the lines ‘Neither shall they take it from me’.

“Aegon knew how to wield dragons. They held the power, not Aegon. He was no threat on his own. Without them, Aegon Targaryen would have been a little man with a big mouth, a historic family name, and thousands of enemies,” Alayne muses. She comes over to Margaery and stops, staring at Joffrey.

Joffrey rolls his eyes, but Margaery half-smiles at her. “Interesting theory. Of course, someone had to train those dragons or else they’d ravage every citizen, including their master. As valid as your point is, dragons alone are not a source of power.”

“Dragons would have been raw power. A force without direction is still a force,” counters Alayne.

“True,” agrees Margaery. She rubs her hand over Alaynes arm and leans in. “But is the greater power not the ability to harness and use the strengths of others?”

When Alayne doesn’t say anything, but continues staring at Margaery’s mouth as though she’s struck gold in the Western mines, Margaery knows she’s won.

Joffrey huffs and grabs Margaery’s arm, yanking her along. “You must see the Throne. It’s the real one.”

She hears Alayne draw in a breath. Margaery knits her eyes together pleadingly as she looks back, begging Alayne not to start a scene. Alayne glares at the back of Joffrey’s head, but doesn’t say anything, settling for crossing her arms over her chest and following along with a silent Bronn.

After the Iron Throne, they look at the dresses and outfits that have been preserved. Whether Alayne’s polite conversation with the curators comes from genuine interest in the clothes or a need to ignore Joffrey denouncing the Starks, Margaery isn’t sure.

He’s a careless man. Hundreds of people mill about the museum and any of them could overhear his cruelty and admission of illegal crimes. There could be cops, investigators, family members strewn throughout the museum. That doesn’t matter to Joffrey. He preens and shows off his family’s fortitude.

“Marriage with Sansa Stark would have been a nightmare. I think I could have made it work though,” says Joffrey.

“Do you? You sound like you loathed her too much to have a happy marriage,” Margaery walks to the next case of clothes: a silk black dress with a modest cut and curtained veil. Likely a funeral gown for a noble lady.

“It wouldn’t have been happy. Not for her,” Joffrey smiles. “I knew how to keep her in line. A couple smacks to the face and she would shut up, like the good little girl her bitch mother taught her to be.”

“You hit her?” Margaery asks. She’s not surprised that he had, only that he would admit it. Though such news about Joffrey surprises her less and less.

“Only when she deserved it. Like when her sister’s mutt attacked me. The beast got away, but someone had to pay. She was a good little fool, told her father she slipped in the bathroom and fell into the faucet.” He looks like he’s telling her that he won first place in a marathon.

Margaery struggles to find an appropriate response. Then Alayne’s arm slips around her protectively. “That’s abuse, asshole,” she says.

Joffrey’s eyes narrow. “No one asked you, you giraffe. Gods Margaery, this bitch is so far beneath you. Why’d you bring her?”

Her instinct to protect Alayne overcomes her need to preserve her story. “Insult my girlfriend again, and we’re done. Whatever you want to use these interviews for, it will be over.”

Joffrey opens his mouth and shuts it, acquiescing to Margaery’s demand.

The smug grin on Alayne’s face can’t remain either.

“If you’ll excuse us,” murmurs Margaery, yanking Alayne along with her.

“How can you let him talk about that and not get angry?” hisses Alayne, realizing that speaking any louder would alarm even more eyes of the other attendees.

“Because I know my purpose. Sometimes you have to put up with filth like that to reach a greater goal, and you’re very close to ruining everything I’ve built with Joffrey so far. I’d prefer to leave with my story still intact,” Margaery brushes back a strand of her own hair.

“He’s been going on about physically abusing a girl and torturing her family and all you care about is a story,” Alayne exclaims, gesturing behind Margaery.

Why doesn’t she get it? “This bloody fucking story can land Cersei Lannister in prison and her son under intense supervision of the Unsullied. If you can’t compose yourself around Joff, then find a way to stay occupied.”

Alayne glares behind Margaery’s shoulder, likely at Joffrey. “Fine.”

Alayne stays by the elderly curator, immediately switching turning into the polite, sweet version of herself. Margaery smiles as she strides back to Joffrey, who is whispering with Bronn.

“Sorry about her,” Margaery says.

Joffrey turns to her. “Not at all. Not everyone can be simple to put in their place.”

Margaery maintains her smile.

“There’s one more room I want to show you,” Joffrey nearly squeals. “It’s not finished yet, but it’s the best exhibit here.”

He frolics to the exit, leaving Margaery alone with Bronn.

“He says only you are allowed in,” Bronn says.

“Before I go, I have a question,” says Margaery. Opportunities to fix past mistakes come so rarely. “I’d be interested in interviewing you for _The King’s Courier_.”

Bronn sniffs. “I ain’t interested in an interview. I don’t need strangers knowing my life story or none of that bull you reporter-types try to entice people with.”

 “Margaery!” yells Joffrey across the room.

Margaery digs through her purse for a business card. “Just think about it, please.”

She smiles sweetly. Bronn rolls his eyes and snatches the card. “Go on before he has my head for keeping you away.”

Margaery follows Joffrey out the main room and into a side room, dimly lit. Joffrey feels along the wall and flips a switch, illuminating the room with florescent lights.

The first thing Margaery notices is the x-shaped cross with rope tied around the four appendages. Next is a coffin with large spikes lining the inside. Swords hang from the walls. A display of a man being drawn and quartered by four horses is the crowning glory of the torture chamber.

All the devices are made by metal, the hands of ancient smiths clearly at work. The mannequin of the quartered man is in mid-scream, his features life-like. Had he begun screaming, she would have believed him a real man.

“The Medeival kings knew how to punish. Perhaps I can convince my Uncle Jaime to adopt a few of these tools. One man dismembered by these horses would teach them,” says Joffrey.

Margaery ignores the urge to ask him if that would include his own men.

Joffrey rests his hand over Margaery’s. “Aside from showing you the wonderful smithship, I had another purpose for bringing you here. I acted poorly with your….friend. Allow me to make it up to you.”

Joffrey takes out his phone and dials. Margaery tilts her head and stares at him.

“Mother… I’m here with Ms. Tyrell. She’d like to speak with you about her article…Then clear some time…Mother, this is not a point of argument…Yes…Yes, I understand… She’s good mother…Thank you. Good bye,” Joffrey hangs up and turns to Margaery, smiling crookedly. “Mother’s office will be in touch.”

“Just like that? You’re mother accepted an interview like that?” Margaery gasps. She instinctively hugs him.

“She likes you. Mother says you have ambition that reminds her of herself,” says Joffrey. His hold on her tightens.

“Thank you,” says Margaery. She pushes his arms down gently.

He leads them out, but stops beside the bundle of whips and chains in a bucket next to flaying board. “Not all these weapons bring pain. When used right, they can be quite pleasurable.” He looks back to Margaery, bad intentions in his eyes. “I could show you.”

A chill shivers down her spine. “We should leave. My girlfriend has to go to work.”

She nudges past him back into the main room of the museum. The crowds grown slightly larger. More people crowd around the larger exhibits, chatting loudly about the quality of the preservations, with children weaving in and out of the packs, ducking and weaving between the plexi glass encasements. Finally, she spots  Alayne in a corner, away from the crowds of people. Her back is toward Margaery, standing next to…Bronn?

                Alayne turns when Margaery gets close. Their apparent conversation ends abruptly.

                “Have bygones been forgiven, then?” asks Margaery.

                “To an extent,” says Alayne. “Are you ready to go?”

                Margaery nods. She looks back to Joffrey, shoving his way through the people. He pants slightly when he reaches them.

                “We’re leaving, but thank you for having us. This a marvelous museum,” Margaery says.

                “Yes, it really is grand,” says Alayne, sincerely. At least she found something nice to say. Alayne grasps Margaery’s hand. “Come on.”

                Margaery waves and walks out with Alayne, passing even greater hordes of people waiting their turn to enter the newest attraction in King’s Landing.

                Margaery starts the car and looks at Alayne. “I know that was hard for you. Thank you for trying.” She leans across the cup holders and kisses Alayne’s cheek.

                “I don’t like it when you’re alone with him,” admits Alayne. “He’s cruel.”

                Margaery ignites the engine. “You won’t have to worry long. After I interview Cersei, we can put all of this behind us.”

                She pulls out of the parking lot.

                “You’re going to interview Cersei Lannister?” Alayne sounds less enthused than Margaery would have thought.

                “Yes, once her schedule is cleared,” says Margaery.

                Alayne stays quiet.

                At the red light, Margaery looks over. “I thought you’d be happier. The sooner I talk to Cersei, the sooner I’ll finish my story.”

                Alayne sighs. “Everything’s about the Lannisters. Can’t we take a break from them, from this? I want to get away, visit Highgarden or Dorne, somewhere beautiful.”

                The light turns green and Margaery drives, getting close to the bar.

                Her favorite images of Highgarden unfurl in her mind. Colorful orchids and gardens. The rose road, lined with bushes and flowers. The wineries, ancient and sturdy. The castle her grandmother lives in, remodeled to look grander than any castle around King’s Landing. Clear blue ponds with little orange and red fish, warm, perfect for skinny dipping.

                “I would like nothing more,” says Margaery. “Perhaps once the article is published. It will be you and me. Only us, I promise.”

                A smile quirks at Alayne’s lips.

                Margaery parks the car and both women get out. Alayne leaves Margaery at the bar. “I’ll only be a moment,” she mumbles as she goes back.

                Margaery leans back against the bar and looks around. Nothing has changed since her last visit.

                Alone with her thoughts, Margaery mulls over Alayne’s recent behavior. Two months ago, everything was fine. No complaints, no trust issues, no worries. It didn’t matter of she as interviewing a Lannister or a nursing home worker, Alayne was happy. She was erratic now. A constant sense of worry persisted whenever Margaery talked of work. She’d always been protective, but now it was almost over bearing. Margaery wasn’t daft enough to think she was blameless either.

                A vacation would be good. They could reset. Her grandmother would let them stay with her. She could show Alayne the gardens she and Loras and Garlan grew up playing in. She’d give her a tour around the Reach, make love to her by the pretty ponds on the castle grounds.

                “’Scuse me,” interrupts a voice behind her. A wet rag nudges against her back.

                Margaery straightens up and turns around. “I’m sorry,” she apologizes. The woman behind the bar continues wiping. “You’re the girl from the Lannister party, aren’t you?”

                She looks up. She is nothing spectacular, straw hair, plain face. “You’re the woman who fell on her arse.”

                Margaery chuckles. “The same. I never did thank you properly. It was very kind of you to help me. So thank you.”

                The girl continues working. “It was my job.”

                “How long have you been working here?” Margaery asks, placing her hands on the newly washed bar.

                “A week,” replies the girl.

                “Ah, you’re the new employee,” Margaery. She leans over the bar and whispers conspiratorially, “I can help you get on well with the boss.” The girl finally stops working. “Let’s just say I know how to push her buttons.”

                The girl tosses the bar rag over her shoulder. “I’m not interested in any of Ms. Stone’s buttons.”

                Before Margaery can clarify herself, she hears Alayne say, “Where’s Shae?”

                “Called in sick. Jon told me to work her shift.”

                “That’s not his decision,” Alayne says.

                “Then answer your bloody phone,” says the girl.

                “Having your phone on at a museum is rude. Didn’t you listen when your mother taught you manners?” Alayne snarks.

                “My mother taught me that some things are more important than manners. Did yours not?” the girl gives right back.

                Margaery waits for the inevitable scolding. It doesn’t come. “You can handle the bar on your own tonight?”

                “I won’t be alone. Jon will be here, as will Rosalyn,” says the girl.

                “Fine,” Alayne slides her hand into Margaery’s. “Baby, let’s go home. I’m tired.”

                Margaery flashes a smile at the bartender. “It was nice to officially meet you…”

                The girl glances at Alayne, as if asking if she really had to respond. “Mercy.”

                “Mercy. Have a nice evening,” Alayne tugs on her hand to leave.

                The ride back is peaceful and quiet. “Pop in a movie and I’ll take care of everything else,” Margaery tells her.

                In the kitchen, Margaery pours two glasses of wine. She hurries back to the living room, finding Alayne comfortable on the couch. “Overall, I think the day went well.”

                She steps over Lady, sleeping with her fluffy stag cradled between her front paws.

                “Overall,” agrees Alayne. She takes a glass from Margaery and sips.

                The movie previews begin. Instantly, Margaery knows what it is. “Florian and Jonquille? You must have really enjoyed the museum.”

                “What would you choose? _The Smiling Knight_?” teases Alayne.

                “That movie won 8 Oscars,” defends Margaery. “Yours won two Razzies.”

                “Some people don’t understand art,” Alayne sets her glass aside. She hits the play button on the remote.

                “Teach me, then.” Margaery settles back against Alayne’s side.

                “Gladly,” says Alayne, spending the next two hours educating Margaery on the artistic beauty of B-rate movies.

 

 

 

 


	13. One Step Behind

 

                Margaery lays the freshly printed stack of papers on Mormont’s desk.

                “You could have emailed these to me and saved us both valuable energy and paper,” say Jorah.

                “I did, sir. I thought you might appreciate a hard copy as well. I know that when I thoroughly review my own work, I prefer paper rather than a computer screen,” Margaery replies. She ruffles out the wrinkles in her skirt.

                He flips through the papers. “We think alike in that regard. Cersei permitted you an interview in your leave?”

                “I haven’t spoken to her yet,” Jorah’s eyes flick up. Margaery quickly adds, “But I have a sit-down interview scheduled with her on Thursday.”

                “I can’t publish until you have that interview,” Jorah repeats the mantra he’s chanted to Margaery seemingly every day for over a month.

                “I’ve had a thought sir,” Margaery says. She welcomes herself to sit in the chair across from Jorah. “Read through what Renly and I have come up with. If you find it sufficient without Cersei’s words, I believe we should publish.”

                He protests, but Margaery interrupts. “Mormont, we can publish this as a weekly series of articles. We can jump on what we have now, aspects that don’t require a response from Cersei. After I speak with her, I’ll edit later editions and add her perspective. But we can’t keep sitting on this story, Mormont.”

                Jorah leans back in his wooden chair. The handles are splintered, daring the brave man who sits in it to attempt to touch it. Down the hall, the sports editor has a leather chair with cupholders that spins. Long before Margaery had begun writing for the Courier, Jorah had supposedly had such lavish things. Whatever had changed, the Jorah Margaery knew preferred the simple things and never wanted for betterment in his office.

                “I’ll read it. I like your idea Tyrell. Weekly releases, keep the readers coming for more. The earliest I’ll publish is Friday. Cersei can’t withdraw an interview that she’s already given,” he gives Margaery a small smile, “You handled the scandal well, Tyrell. I realize I may have been rash in my reaction. All the same, you continue to be one of the best workers I’ve ever had work for me. You and Renly both.”

                Margaery smiles and stands up. “Thank you, sir. Your compliments mean much to both of us.”

                ***************

                “Never have I ever… stolen a car,” says Loras.

                Margaery stares at Ygritte, who tries to act innocent, fiddling with her phone, until she looks up and her blue-grey eyes meet Margaery’s. She sighs and drinks, a long, loud gulp.

                “Seriously?” asks Loras, astonished.

                “It was a long time ago,” Ygritte crosses her arms over her chest. “And the fuzz let me off with a warning.”

                “How did you manage that?” Loras leans in, truly fascinated.

                “Well, you see in the lonesome north, when a cop finds a woman attractive…”Ygritte winks.

                “Down girl, he’s taken,” says Margaery, “as are you.” She gets up and gets another brownie.

                “We have to keep it down too. Renly’s waking up early again tomorrow,” says Loras. He pops a few pieces of popcorn into his mouth.

                Margaery resumes her spot next to Ygritte.

                “It’s not much of a celebration if one half of the celabratees is asleep,” says Ygritte.

                “Come on, next one. I’m almost finished with my drink,” says Margaery.

                “That’s only your first,” Loras pours more gin into his cup.

                Ygritte lays across Margaery’s lap and grins up at her. “Never have I ever had sex with handcuffs on my hands.”

                No one moves. Ygritte bolts up, then holds her head, having moved too quickly. “Liar,” she finally accuses when the room stops spinning. “You and Alayne did kinky stuff with handcuffs before you moved out.”

                “Yes, darling, but they weren’t on my hands. Alayne’s the naughty girl in our relationship,” Margaery smiles.

                “Ah,” Ygritte whines, she turns to Loras. “What about you?! You’re fuzz! How can you and Renly not do it with cuffs?”

                “I don’t know,” defends Loras. He cradles his glass closer to him, as if it will protect him from Ygritte. “It’s never come up before!”

                “That’s the first thing I would do as a copper!” Ygritte yells.

                Loras looks pleadingly at Margaery, asking ‘Please control your psychotic friend’. Margaery shrugs and finishes her drink. “Looks like you have some homework, brother.”

                “It will have to line up behind all the ‘homework’ Chief Lannister has given me lately,” sighs Loras.

                Margaery empathized with her brother. Loras hadn’t had a free weekend in almost a month and the late shifts nearly every night since then as well. This was his first free night in two weeks.

                “He’s just being a prick. Give a few more weeks and he’ll forget you even exist. He’ll be caught up in some new rookie to mess with,” Margaery pours a little more wine in her glass. While Margaery is looking at Loras, Ygritte tips up the bottom of the bottle. Wine fills to the brim.

                “There. That’s a proper drink,” Ygritte takes another gulp of her own.

                “I’m not going to finish it,” Margaery sips the glass. It’s sweeter than her usual brand, but still good. “Alayne’s going to be here any minute.”

                “Then I suppose I’ll be drinking for two,” shrugs Ygritte, taking a Margaery’s glass and drinking a gulp.

                “I’m not gone yet,” Margaery snatches her glass back.

                “Once Cersei’s locked away, what are you going to work on?” asks Loras.

                “Can’t say,” hums Margaery.

                “Yeah, Loras. Her work is confidential and sensitive. You fail as an interrogator. Go get more drinks.” Says Ygritte

                “Marge” starts Loras.

                “Ah, ah. Shoo. You lost this round,”says Margaery. Loras looks affronted, but does as he is bid.

                Once he’s in the kitchen, Ygritte pipes, “So whatchya doing next?”

                Margaery crosses her legs and takes another drink. “As you said, it’s confidential.”

                “What?” whines Ygritte. “That was just to get him out of here.”

                Margaery covers Ygritte’s hand with her own. “And you did such a lovely job of that, Ygritte.”

                Truthfully, Margaery had her sights set on Sansa and Arya Stark. She’d be more careful this time. Ygritte, Loras and Alayne were too involved with the Lannisters throughout her story. She decided to go solo with the Starks. No need to involve Renly. As helpful as he’s been, Margaery feels she needs to do this one on her own. There’s less danger with a dead mafia, less people to fear.

                At first, she wanted to tell Alayne. But Alayne’s reaction the other night seemed less than promising of support. Perhaps when Margaery had more evidence of the Stark girls, she could tell Alayne. Of course, a good place to start would be to find out what the girls had looked like.

                From the kitchen, Loras wretches. “I’m fine!” He calls out. “Just some spit.” It was the first sign that he had drunken too much. Knowing her brother, two more drinks would have him singing show tunes. And knowing Ygritte, there would be calls of ‘take it off baby’ before Jon walked through the door.

                Margaery had never realized what a heavy sleeper Renly was. No wonder he didn’t mind sleeping in the room next to Garlan and Leonette during the visit to Highgarden two years ago. Loras had complained incessantly about the noise while Renly said he hardly noticed it.

                “You going to celebrate with her tonight?” Ygritte presses.

                “Is my sex life truly the most joy you receive?” Margaery places her quarter empty wine glass on the coaster on the side desk.

                “At this very moment yes. Unless you want me to go in detail about the orgasm Jon gave me this morning,” Ygritte says, her eyes serious.

                Margaery rolls her eyes. “Yes, if you must know, I plan on celebrating with her. We have quite a few things we need to make up for.”

                “How drunk are you?” Ygritte tosses back the rest of her glass.

                “I’ve had a shot of whatever the hell concoction you made earlier and a glass and a quarter of wine. I’m barely buzzed.” Margaery says. “You?”

                “I lost count after 6,” says Ygritte.

                As Loras returns, there’s a knocking at the door. Margaery gets up. “I believe that’s for me.”

                She heads to the door, popping loose a couple buttons on her blouse along the way. She leans against the doorway, angling herself so Alayne can have an eyeful of cleavage. She pushes the door open, revealing Alayne wearing her sexy new blue dress with the deep thigh cut, hair tossed over one shoulder as she taps away at her phone.

                “I believe you have the wrong address, darling,” Alayne looks up, confused. “I think the neighbors were the ones who called ‘Sexiness in Heels’.”

                Alayne smiles. Her eyes move to Margaery’s chest and she bites her lip, then looks back up. “That was godsawful,” she laughs. She steps into the doorway and leans down to kiss Margaery.

Margaery’s holds her hand against Alayne’s waist , and gently pulls away with a pop. “It worked.”

From the living room, Ygritte starts whooping.

“Shut up! My boyfriend is trying to sleep!” yells Loras.

Footsteps pound upstairs. “Oi Loras! Quiet down! I can hardly sleep with you raising your voice!” yells Renly, asummably from the top of the stairs.

“Yeah Loras. Don’t you know he has to be up in a few hours,” scolds Ygritte.

Renly stomps back to his room as Loras looks around the house, mouth wide. “What is this world coming to?” he mutters.

Alayne laughs at poor Loras’s misery. “Don’t worry. Jon is on his way. He just had to stop for gas.”

“Bye Loras, bye Ygritte. I’ll call you both later,” calls Margaery over her shoulder.

She takes Alayne’s hand and shuts the door behind her, but not before hearing Ygritte say, “Jon and I have been trying a few new things with oral, and I think you and Renly could benefit from trying them.”

Alayne nearly stumbles in her heels as Margaery drags her along behind. “What are you rushing for?” she asks.

Margaery whirls around guides puts Alayne’s hands on her hips, before wrapping her own arms around Alayne’s neck and rocks forward onto her tiptoes. With Alayne in her heels, Alayne has to lean down for the kiss. Alayne’s hand moves up and splays against Margaery’s back as Margaery tilts her head and deepens the kiss.

Margaery finally pulls away, then half smiles at Alayne. “I have plans for you.”

She skips around the car to the passenger’s side. Alayne follows her in from the driver’s side. “You might have to delay those plan, babe. I’m expecting a couple important business calls tonight.” She pecks Margaery on the cheek. “I could be up late.”

Alayne starts the car and begins driving.

Undeterred, Margaery turns her body to face Alayne, gently gliding her finger down Alayne’s bare arm. “You’ll need company. Someone to keep you entertained and energized when your calls come in.”

Alayne’s fingers tighten around the steering wheel. “Margaery, I have to stay focused. Both on my business and on driving.” She shrugs in a vain attempt to remove Margaery from herself.

Margaery leans closer, boldly cupping Alayne’s breast and massaging her through her dress. “It’ll be easier to focus once you don’t have to think about the things I want to do you.”

Margaery couldn’t care less that Alayne is driving. All she knows is what she wants, and she always got what she wanted. She rests her chin on Alayne’s shoulder and drags her fingers down Alayne’s side to her thigh. “We never celebrated our anniversary. Don’t you want to celebrate that with me? What’s your deepest fantasy, sweetling? The one you think about when you’re away?” She lightly kisses Alayne’s jawline.

 Alayne trembles against her, fighting to keep her attention on the road. Stolen glances to the mirror, at the perfect angle to see Margaery’s breasts pushing up through the unbuttoned top of her shirt and the way Alayne squeezes her thighs together tell Margaery what she needs to know.

“I’ve gotten so wet, imagining you taking me. I’d rather not have to fix it myself,” she whispers, hand moving gently up Alayne’s thigh.

“Fuck, Marge,” Alayne murmurs. She glances at the clock on the dashboard, then wildly pulls over into some random parking lot.

She turns off the car and unbuckles. Surprising Margaery, she climbs across and into the passenger seat, straddling Margaery. She kisses Margaery roughly. As Margaery feels around for her belt buckle, she’s suddenly flung backwards in the seat, Alayne slamming down on top of her. Breathless, she finally finds the button and pops off the seat belt.

“Sorry,” mutters Alayne into her mouth. Her fingers swiftly undo the remaining buttons on her shirt. “Where’s your jacket?”

                Margaery sucks on her bottom lip. “At home, why?” Her fingers wrap around the back of Alayne’s thigh and squeeze.

                “My fantasy,” Alayne finishes the buttons and sits up, allowing Margaery to take off her shirt before pouncing back on top of her. “I want to fuck you hard in nothing but your jacket.”

                Margaery moans. She moves her hand, massaging Alayne’s arse. “Fantasy number 2?”

                Alayne cups Margaery’s face, and kisses her again, deep and slow. Her teeth catch on Margaery’s bottom lip, pulling deliberately. She lets go of her lip, and pants as she stares into Margaery’s eyes. “I love you.”

                Margaery’s hand stops as she stares back at Alayne. The mood swing catches her off guard. She opens her mouth to say something back, but can’t. So she kisses her gently, pulling Alayne closer. Pressure in her chest builds like a magnet drawing her into Alayne, but never close enough.

                She tries to flip them over, but Alayne keeps her pinned down by the waist. Alayne separates their lips, giving Margaery a chance to breathe. She kisses Margaery’s ear, her nails lightly scratch over her tattoo. “You’re so strong. You don’t always have to be so strong,” she whispers.

                Margaery can’t make sense of the words, but that doesn’t matter. She places hands back down on Alayne’s thighs. She bunches the bottom of her dress up to her hips and nudges aside the thin cloth of underwear to feel Alayne’s silky skin. Her hips jerk as Margaery's finger glides between her folds.

                Kisses on her neck become sloppier and Margaery can hardly think when she feels Alayne pull down her underwear from underneath her skirt.

                Margaery presses two fingers hard against Alayne’s clit.

                “Marge,” Alayne whimpers, her hips once more bucking on their own accord.

                Margaery pulls her head back to look at Alayne. Control is shifting back toward her. She crunches forward until she’s sitting up. She nips Alayne’s neck, delighting in the way Alayne groans. Once Alayne’s fingers find Margaery’s own clit, they begin moving together. Each time Alayne brushes her, Margaery does the same. Alayne moans freely when Margaery inserts two fingers into her dripping pussy and shoves up. “Margaery, ugh!”

                No longer on the same train of thought, Alayne pulls down the cups of Margaey’s bra, accidentally snapping one of the straps. She pinches the nipple between her fingers. Margaery tosses her head back and pushes her hips up.

                Alayne bends her neck and nips at Margaery’s ear. “Baby, I’m so close. I want you to come with me.  What do you need?” She’s panting. When Margaery pulls her fingers out of her, Alayne’s hips jerk back. She tries to stroke her clit to make her come, but Alayne pulls farther back.

                Margaery moans as Alayne pinches her just right. “Alayne, do that again,” she pushes her hips up into Alayne. Alayne pinches her again and Margaery bites her lip not to yell. On the verge of her orgasm, Margaery reinserts her fingers into Alayne and curls them, pushing up hard. They come together.

                The feeling of Alayne clenching around her fingers makes her feel as though she’s about to come again, not even recovered from her release. She leaves a trail of wet kisses up Alayne’s jaw as they both recover. “Alayne,” she murmurs into her soft skin. She’s not sure what she wants to say, but she feels the need to speak.

                A buzzing sound pierces through their breathing.

                “Shit,” Alayne curses and snatches her phone out of the cupholder. She holds up one finger to her lips, indicating for Margaery to stay quiet. Clearing her throat, she answers the call. “Is he there…No, tell her to wait….We need to make it less… Less costly…If you can’t figure out what the hell I mean by that, then I’m throwing your ass to the lions…Call me back in fifteen minutes.”

                Sighing, she hangs up. Her fingers run through her hair. Margaery reaches forward and stops her hand. “Need another round?” she smiles

                “Gods, yes,” groans Alayne. She grabs Margaery’s cheeks and kisses her again, only a chaste peck though. “I have to get you home though. This is important business.”

                Unsteadily, Alayne crawls to the driver’s seat. She straightens her dress and adjusts the mirror. She watches Margaery fix her chair and redress herself. “Sorry about your bra. I’ll buy you another.”

                Buttoning her shirt, Margaery looks up through her eyelids and smirks, “You’d better. Wouldn’t want me walking around braless, would you?”

                Alayne blushes and starts the car. “Mhmm,” she hums.

                Fully dressed, Margaery buckles herself in to the seat. “What’s the oh-so-important business you're suffering through?”

                Alayne pulls out of the parking lot. “It’s, the uhm, the merger.”

                “The cosmetic line?” Margaery asks.

                “Yeah. The company is based in Asshai, so Petyr and I are adjusting for the time difference,” says Alayne.

                A few minutes later, they’re parking in the driveway. “Are you sure you don’t want to do it again?” Margaery teases as they walk to the front door.

                Alayne smiles down at the ground. “Maybe if you’re still up by the time my work is done.”

                Margaery stands on her toes and kisses Alayne’s cheek. “Feel free to wake me.”

                Alayne opens the door letting Margaery walk in. Upstairs, Margaery changes into a cami and pajama pants.

                She comes back down to find Alayne sitting at the table, her phone sitting in front of her. “I’m going to bed, beautiful.”

                “You’re not going to wait up for me?” pouts Alayne, a smile trying to break through her façade.

                Margaery leans over her back and kisses her. “I need to prepare my interview questions for Cersei tomorrow. Like I said, you can always wake me if you want more fun.”

                Alayne leans back. “Good night, Marge.”

                As she walks away, Margaery pats the back of her leg. “Come on Lady. Bed time.” Lady guides her to Alayne’s room and jumps on the bed, ready to sacrifice herself to be Margaery’s pillow.

                She fades into a deep, dreamless sleep. At some point in the night she arouses enough to feel Alayne snuggle into her shoulder. She’s murmuring something into her, too softly for Margaery to understand.

                This time, her sleep is filled with flashing images. She’s running through a smokey haze. Sulfur burns her lungs, suffocating her senses of taste and smell. Joffrey’s laughter rings through her ears. No matter how fast she runs, she can’t escape. Finally she reaches a clearing, void of smoke. She walks around a giant rosebush like the one’s that her grandmother tended to when she was a child. “Babe!” calls a voice behind her. Margaery twirls around, but can’t find the owner. She glimpses a reddish blur that goes behind one of the large bushes. Margaery chases it, but the blur always remains a step ahead.

The next time she wakes up, they’ve switched positions. Margaery lifts her head off of Alayne’s shoulder. After gently removing Alayne’s arm from around her, she crawls out of bed.

She goes to the kitchen and begins making coffee. For the first time in weeks, she feels fully relaxed. Her story is running smoothly, her relationship is back on stable ground. Not to mention she had good sex last night.

While the water reaches a boil, Margaery’s phone rings. She grabs it out of her purse. “Hello?”

“Yes, is Margaery Tyrell there?” asks a small, higher pitched male voice.

“Yes, I’m Margaery. May I help you?”

“My mum, er, uhm, Mrs. Lannister regretfully must cancel your meeting on Thursday,” he stammers.

“Oh,” says Margaery, surprised, “Okay then. Does she have a day available to reschedule?”

“She’s not taking any meetings indefinitely,” he replies.

Margaery leans back against the counter. “May I ask why?”

“You haven’t heard?” he pauses, the says. “Her son, Joffrey, died last night.”


	14. How Do You Feel?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So for some clarity, Renly and Stannis are related, but neither is related to Robert, therefore neither are related to Joffrey either.

After hanging up with Tommen Baratheon, the first thing Margaery feels is guilt. And a slight headache from drinking the night before.

Because she doesn’t feel sorry or sad or upset in general by Joffrey’s death. She feels guilty for not feeling those things, though.

The boy likely told her more than he should have when he said Joffrey’s death was being investigated by police. Jaime and Cersei would want to keep that out of public attention for as long as possible.

Margaery can scarcely blame the boy. He sounds far younger than 18, scared and shaken. Almost innocent in a way his family could not replicate. Margaery could see why Cersei had him call rather than her secretary.

She sets down her phone and pours her coffee. She forgoes her usual amount of sugar with hopes that the bitterness will jolt her numbed senses and cure her headache.

A few minutes and half a cup of the most disgusting coffee she’s forced herself to drink , Margaery is back to work. She takes care of Lady, who jumps and yips with excitement as Margaery puts her leash on and takes her to the front yard. When she comes back, there’s a text from Renly saying Jorah wants all writers in the office ASAP.

Her shower is quick and she rushes to apply her make-up, done in twenty minutes rather than her typical hour long ritual.

Ready to head out the door, she stops at the closet. Alayne doesn’t know she’s heading to the office today. Before news of Joffrey’s death flipped her story into uncertainty, today was supposed to be a lazy “work from home” day. Two weeks ago, Margaery would have been out the door without a thought as to what Alayne would say or think.

Now, she finds herself going back to Alayne’s room. The door squeaks in a way it wouldn’t have had she not been trying to keep it quiet. Alayne lays sprawled on the bed, still in the same position Margaery had awoken to. Margaery kneels beside her and gently strokes her hair, stiff from having unwashed hair product in all night. Alayne turns her head toward Margaery in her sleep. Her nails lightly scrape over Alayne’s cheek. Alayne flinches in response. “Good morning, sweetling,” she says softly.

Her eyes blink open, dazed and unfocused until she finds Margaery’s smile. “Nnnn, what time is it?”

“Eight,” Margaery says.

Alayne groans again and turns her head to the face the ceiling, throwing an arm over her eyes. “T’s too early.”

Margaery chuckles, “You can go back to sleep. I just wanted to tell you that I’m going to the office.”

“But you’re s’posed to cuddle with me,” Alayne says. She rolls onto her side to properly face Margaery.

“Mormont called all reporters in. Joffrey died last night,” Margaery pauses for a moment, to allow the news to sink in before continuing, “It’s going to be the biggest story on television and in all the papers, so I might be home late too.” She can imagine the list of people Jorah will want her to interview and the amount of editing he’ll want for the article she’s been crafting.

Alayne’s lack of reaction doesn’t surprise Margaery. Alayne made it well known that she loathed the Lannister heir. That hatred combined with the daze of waking up made things difficult to process. It had taken Margaery long enough to process the news herself.

“I have to go. Goodbye, darling,” Margaery says.

Alayne lays back down. “Bye Marge, stay safe, okay?”

“I always do,” calls Margaery over her shoulder as she walks out.

The office is buzzing as usual. Interns race back and forth, juggling coffee cups with notepads and cameras. Old lady Fossoway chats away on the office phone in a conversation that sounds very unrelated to work. On days like these, Margaery wis thankful that her office is upstairs away from the chaos.

She narrowly dodges Jorah’s frazzled graphics intern, who rushes around a corner, shouting out an apology that sounds like it’s been repeated a dozen times today alone.

Renly, Jorah, Myranda, Doran, and Irri are already gathered in the conference room when Margaery arrives.

“Nice of you to join us,” snarks Myranda.

Margaery shrugs off the comment and takes a seat beside Renly. She doesn’t know what she’s ever done to Myranda, just that the girl has hated her every moment from the day Margaery accepted a staff position with the _Courier_. Her jealousy has gotten worse the longer she’s worked on her story about Cersei.

“Where’s Tarly?” Jorah barks.

As if those were the magic words, Sam tumbles through the doorway, red-faced and puffing. “Sorry, sorry. Little Sam was under the weather and Gilly was still at work and my mum got stuck in traffic-”

Jorah glares at him. “Enough Tarly. Sit.”

Sam grabs the nearest chair and sits, trying to shush his panting breaths.

Jorah stands at the front of the table. “As you all know, or should know, Joffrey Baratheon died early this morning. Personally, this news is not news. It’s tabloid fodder of a banking heir. However, thanks to some investigative work from one of our own,” he looks pointedly at Margaery before returning his attention to the rest of the table. Myranda rolls her eyes. “I believe his death warrants a major news story. Therefore I want three reporters covering the Lannisters.”

Margaery straightens up, ready to pitch an idea for how to get a response from Cersei. Tommen told her that she was welcome to attend Joffrey’s private funeral. Although she declined because of Jorah’s strict ethical code, she might be able to get a word or two from Cersei if Jorah cared enough to bend his rules.

“Tarly I want you checking the hospital and the police department. Speak with anyone who will talk. Rhoyce and Baratheon, you two are going follow the family. See what L&C is doing. Respect their privacy though. If they ask you to leave them alone, then back off. Martell, you will be pick up Tarly’s workload for the day. Speak with him about what he needs done. Tyrell, you’ll attend the mayor’s press conference on the preservation of Baelor’s Sept. You’re all dismissed.”

The other journalists file out of the room, but Margaery remains seated. Jorah gathers his work together. “Is there something you need Tyrell?”

“Why am I not working on Joffrey’s death?” asks Margaery.

“You don’t need every major news story, Tyrell. Other writers deserve their spotlight coverage too,”Jorah opens the door to leave.

Margaery follows close behind. “Yes, but this is my story. I’ve built a repertoire with the Lannisters. They know me. They’ll talk to me.”

Jorah walks into his office and shuts the door after Margaery. “First, they don’t know you. If they did, they’d know how your interviews have cost them thousands of dragons in profit, sent the Cleganes on the run, and imprisoned three associates. I’d like to keep it that way. You don’t need to be on every story concerning them. And you’re too invested in them.”

“I don’t feel sorry about Joffrey’s death,” Margaery says. “You know emotions won’t be an issue.”

“That’s enough reason to have Rhoyce cover the story,” Jorah says as he writes on a sheet of paper. “You’ve got a vendetta against the Lannisters. I understand, they’ve done terrible things. It works itself out in an investigative piece. I can’t run the risk in a straight news story.”

“I can put it aside. I’ve never had issues being fair.”

“What I said is final. Stannis’s press conference begins in an hour. Get down there,” Jorah says. “Wait.”

Margaery stops at the door and turns back.

“I edited your first article. It’s nice work. I’m not publishing it yet.” Before Margaery can argue, Jorah adds, “Not until this story blows over. It will look too convenient, like we’re taking advantage of the situation. It will see the front page soon though.”

Margaery nods curtly and leaves.

The typical reporter pool mills around the vicinity of fold out chairs in front of City Hall. Cameramen jostle each other to reach the best angles of the mayor. Although the pool is smaller than the typical crowd that usually attends Stannis’s press conferences. The renovation of Baelor’s Sept is secondary news today.

She sits in the first row of reporter chairs, directly in front of the podium. There’s no way Stannis will be able to ignore her questions.

As she slides her purse under her chair, a voice clears their throat above her. Margaery looks up to meet an unhappy looking Melisandre glaring down at her. Shouldn’t the most controversial reporter in Westeros be writing about the most famous death in Westeros since Ned Stark’s family died?

Margaery smiles charmingly. “Hello Melisandre. Lovely day.”

“This is my seat. I always sit here during the mayor’s press conferences,” Melisandre says, unamused.

“Perhaps you should have them engrave your name on the chair,” Margaery clicks her pen and crosses her legs, a firm stance that she will not budge.

Melisandre sits down next to her. “Why are you here? Where’s that little Myranda?”

“Didn’t you see it in the flames?”

“Don’t jest Margaery. R’hllor will remember.”

                _The Red Watch_ published her first two articles written in King’s Landing. They both concerned minor news stories, but when Margaery wrote the articles, _The Red Watch_ was finding its foothold. It wasn’t the tabloid rumor mill it turned into. Which made Melisandre’s presence here more baffling.

                “Jorah assigned me to this conference. What about you? Shouldn’t you be twisting Chief Lannister’s arm to spill what he knows about Joffrey?” That’s what she would be doing now.

                “Stannis does the Lord’s work. He has an announcement that my readers will want to know.”

                It made sense now. Melisandre was here to fuel work for her opinion section “Through the Flames”. Apparently, Stannis was R’hllor’s chosen vessel this week.

                Personally, Margaery still followed the Seven. Although following the scandal outing a sex slavery ring the High Septon ran, she found it more and more difficult to trust the Septons and Septas of the faith.

                Other reporters join them as Stannis’s aids come out, followed by Stannis himself. The team of aids checks the sound before giving Stannis the thumbs up to walk to the podium. Margaery turns on her recorder. It will be easier to go back and take direct quotes from that later than to attempt to scribble every word he says.

                “Good afternoon,” rumbles Stannis’s deep voice. His movements are stiff and awkward. “Thank you for coming today. I have prepared a statement in regards to the renovations of the Sept of Baelor. The back will be rebuilt using the stone and mortar method that was used to construct the building 500 years ago to maintain the building’s historical integrity. There have been fireproof pillars added to update the building to fire code regulation. The roof is…”

                Margaery could feel herself nodding off. It wasn’t all Stannis’s fault. Okay it was 70% his fault. He lacks the charm and charisma of Renly, his younger brother. Without a proper DNA test, Margaery wouldn’t believe that the two were even related.

                The only thing keeping Margaery awake is the spectacle between Melisandre and Stannis as Stannis talks. Melisandre makes smoldering eyes toward Stannis, who tries to ignore her, except Margaery can tell by the way he quirks his lips unnaturally as Melisandre winks that something is definitely going on there.

                “Questions?” Stannis asks, reminding Margaery that she had completely blown her purpose of being here.

                Sitting in the front row is a regret. Especially when Stannis stares at her, daring her to raise her hand. No one else raises their hand, so his pressure tactic fails.

                Finally, Melisandre raises her hand with a flourish. “Mayor Baratheon, followers of R’hllor have been petitioning for a place in which they may freely worship the Lord of Light. What have you done to address their concerns?”

                “Thank you for the question,” Stannis says. He must not receive questions often at these events. “On the top of Visenya’s Hill, we will begin construction of a temple shortly.”

                Margaery turns to Melisandre. The red witch smiles smugly at Stannis, partially in adoration and partially in self-pride. She knew what he would say. Yet, there had been no hint of news that construction of a temple would begin anywhere in the city. This wasn’t Margaery’s typical beat, so Myranda may have had an insight, but based on the shocked faces of those around her, Margaery was willing to bet this was a bombshell in the world of small city government.

                “Until construction is finished, the High Septon of the Sept of Baelor has agreed to allow use of the Stranger’s private alter for any such rituals the Lord of Light would require of his people.”

                Stannis grimaces at the audience. Margaery could only imagine he was attempting a smile. From that point on, questions flowed easily. Despite coming unprepared, Margaery manages to conjure a few on the spot. Stannis’s abrupt and cold responses don’t come as easily. They sound intelligent and thought out, but rehearsed and as though he would rather be anywhere but here. Margaery has a specific place in mind for him as Melisandre continues her strange telepathic flirtation with the mayor.

                “You knew,” says Margaery when Stannis’s aids shuffle him off stage.

                “I knew what?” asks Melisandre innocently.

                “You said he was making an important announcement and then he says they’re beginning immediate construction of a temple for the Lord of Light. That’s not coincidence, darling.”

                Melisandre barks a laugh. “I saw it in the flames, child.”

                She gets up and walks in the direction that Stannis’s aids led him.

                Margaery lets it go. Who her fellow reporter does in her free time is none of her business, and she’d like to keep it that way.

                She goes to the nearest coffee shop with free wifi, where she has a quick phone interview with one of the Red Priests and with a Septa at the Sept of Baelor, then types up a draft highlighting the news about the new temple construction focusing on how the priests and septons plan on working together during the next few months.

                Once Jorah sends her the thumbs up for the article, she’s free to go. For a moment, she considers pitching her idea for her next investigation piece to Jorah, then decides against it. She hasn’t even finished interviewing Cersei. She could hear Jorah droning on about the importance of wrapping up one story before moving on to the next.

                Yet, how could she finish her story on Cersei now? Moving on to the next story was the smart move. Margaery would call Cersei’s office again in a few days to check on her.  Meanwhile, she would begin searching for leads on the Stark girls.

                On the drive home, she thinks about what Jorah said. Joffrey’s death should impact her more. She spent almost as much time with him in the last month as she did with Alayne. The boy was spoiled and disgusting, but she didn’t even feel the slightest sense of loss. Being able to compartmentalize work and real life has always been a point of pride. It never hindered her work in the past; it typically promoted her work.

                As Margaery walks through the front door she notices a distinct lack of wolf-dog attacking her.  She can hear Alayne’s voice drifting down the hall from the kitchen. Walking closer, the words become audible. “I wish I had seen her face when she heard.  I want her to know how it feels to have everything ripped from you… Not yet. Speculation needs to die down before that… I’ve taken care of that. No one knows she was there… I made sure he took care of it, Petyr. I know what I’m doing… Yes I know what I’m doing with her too! I’m not a damn child anymore…”

                Margaery stops outside the kitchen door to listen a little longer. “It’s done, that’s all I’m concerned about… I’ve got to go Petyr…Just because you don’t a love life doesn’t mean I should sacrifice mine,” she hears the teasing note in Alayne’s voice, more playful than she usually is with Baelish.

                She takes that as her cue to enter the kitchen. Lady lays at Alayne’s feet, gnawing on a raw-hide. Her teeth crack against the bone. “I told you, I have to got Petyr. Bye.”

                For a split second, Margaery thinks Alayne’s voice sounds slightly different a moment ago. Slightly more like Ygritte’s, and not with the hint of Riverland she hears now. She shakes off the ridiculous thought. They’ve been together for over a year and Alayne’s voice has always had a Riverland lilt to it. A long day at work is finally taking it’s toll.

                “Hello my pretty little rose,” Alayne smiles dazzlingly. “What happened to a late night at the office?”

                Margaery picks an apple out of the fruit basket on the island. “Not as busy as I thought it would be.” She takes a bite. “Why are you so happy.”

                Alayne takes the apple from Margaery and takes a bite from it. “What’s not to be happy about?”

                Pure joy emanates from Alayne. Margaery feels her mood brighten just looking her girlfriend’s smile. Still, something felt off about the conversation she overheard. If she was going to be forthright with Alayne, she expects the same in return.

                She playfully snatches the apple back from Alayne. “Did I interrupt something important?” Not wanting Alayne to feel defensive, she keeps her tone light.

                “You heard that?” Alayne asks, her voice level and not sounding overly innocent to compensate for a lie. Good. It relaxes Margaery.

                “Mmm-hmm. Sounds like you’re playing dirty with your business endeavors,” she leans on the counter island and chomps another bit of apple, juicy and skinless so there’s no bitter aftertaste.

                “Maybe a little,” Alayne winks. She comes closer and wraps arms around Margaery, towering over her. “I finished the deal with the cosmetic company. It will take some time to get it off the ground, but it’s mine.” She squeals like a little girl. Sometimes Margaery forgets that Alayne is younger than her, but moments like these remind her.

                “That’s amazing,” smiles Margaery. She kisses Alayne’s cheek. She pulls away and moves to the fridge to get a drink.“You must have driven a hard sale with the old owner, to hate her so much.”

                Alayne’s face darkens slightly. “Let’s just say she rubs me the wrong way.” The slight dip in mood quickly disappears. “Anyway, how was your day?”

                “Odd,” admits Margaery. She chews more of the apple. She spits out a piece of skin that’s too big and unsavory and watches Lady eat it off the floor. “A man I’ve spent the better part of the last four weeks getting to know died last night and I feel nothing for him.” She turns back to Alayne. “Shouldn’t I feel sad or sorry?”

                Alayne looks at her sympathetically. Her eyes pour out the sympathy Margaery wishes she felt for Joffrey. “You shouldn’t feel obligated to feel anything for him. He was awful, Margaery. He told you the things he did to that Stark girl. And the way he looked at you, touched you,” Alayne’s voice becomes angrier and harder with every allusion to Joffrey. “That monster could have tried to do you what he did to those women from Winterfell.”

                “What women?” Margaery asks. She drinks a sip from her glass of water. Joffrey had never mentioned any women from Winterfell besides the Stark women and a girl named Jeyne Poole.

                “Did you not hear? Let me show you,” she takes Margaery to the living room, where Alayne’s laptop sits closed on the couch. She opens the screen to an already opened website, Winterfell News Network.

                A video begins playing. Even though the sound is off, the bruises and busted lips of two women, prostitutes based on the article’s title, tells the story.

                The graphic pictures don’t seem doctored as far as Margaery can tell, although Renly has a better eye for such things.

                “The newscaster said the women would only speak with WNN,” Alayne says. Warning flags set off in Margaery’s head. WNN isn’t the most trustworthy of news outlets to begin with, considering a sketchy association with the Stark family. These women might be looking for a bit of cheap fame from a bitter news station. She has her questions, but she’s inclined to believe the women.

                “Joffrey was an arse and a prick, but that seems beyond his power.”

                Alayne holds Margaery against her. “Why would they make it up? They put themselves at risk by speaking out against any Lannister. You proved as much with your interview with Sandor Clegane.” That was true. There was more to lose than gain for these women by throwing Joffrey’s name under the bus now.

                Margaery lays her head on Alayne’s shoulder. Alayne closes her laptop. “If he did that to them, I don’t want to imagine what he could have done to you. I’d rather him dead than ever have another chance to hurt you.”


	15. Friends and Family

                “Do you think they have kinky fire ritual sex?” Ygritte asks as she, Margaery and Renly squeeze past the already sitting members of the audience to reach their seats.

                They had arrived just in time for the tournament and the air already smelled strong of beer and nachos. Those seated, particularly the men, were much kinder about standing to allow Margaery and Ygritte through, but would turn back to sit as soon as they were passed, holding up Renly.

                “Can we please not talk about my brother’s sex life? He has a 12-year-old daughter you know,” Renly says, shoving past a man who decided to get up the moment Renly walked by him.

                Ygritte and Margaery sit in their seats. “They probably use candle wax. I read somewhere that dripping it down a man’s chest can be a huge turn on.” Ygritte wiggles her eyebrows.

                “Sounds too painful,” says Margaery. She can’t imagine Stannis would be the kinky sort. From everything Renly has told her about him, the wildest thing he would probably do during sex is turn on the lights. Melisandre on the other hand…

                She shudders at the thought.

                The lights dim and a hush falls over the crowd. The duelers file out as a hype song plays, a generic one that Margaery can’t remember the name of. In his gold uniform adorned with an intricate flower design, Loras waves to the crowd. A loud roar responds. For five years Loras was a national champion fencer, traveling across Westeros to compete in tourneys until he settled down permanently to be closer to Renly.

                Beside him, Jon looks stoic. His plain grey fencing uniform stood out from the rest of the fencers, who, like Loras, wore stylish uniforms. Even the fencer with the deep blue uniform looked more distinctive than him.

                At the end of the line stands reigning champion, Jaime Lannister.  Despite his nephew’s recent death, Jaime insisted he would defend his championship. His red and gold uniform has a symbol of a lion on his chest. 

                The next hour was a barrage of clanging blunted metal swords. The crowd cheered with every victorious poke and gasped with every swipe that narrowly missed touching the fighters. The cheers were loudest when the fencer in blue defeated Meryn Trant. The man screeched and tried to rip off the mask of the mystery fencer, only to be carelessly shoved aside and fall into the crowd, becoming covered in in nachos.

                The tournament was predictable until Jon stunned the crowd and defeated Jaime. All were silent, save for a cheer here or there in the audience, and of course Ygritte’s loud cries of “You got this baby! One more! One more!”

                The championship match was a three-way contest between Jon, Loras and the mystery fighter.

                “Fifteen dragons says Jon will win,” says Ygritte.

                “Loras has never lost match. I’ll take that bet and raise you 5 dragons,” counters Margaery. If there was one thing Loras did well, it was hit other men with sticks.

                “Done,” smiles Ygritte. “What about Ren? You want in on this?”

                “It’s Renly,” he reminds her for the fifth time today. “My wager goes on the girl in blue.”

                Margaery glares at him. “You’d betray my brother for a stranger and forty dragons? Wait til Loras finds out.”

                “That’s a man, Ren. Look at him, he practically towers over Jon and Loras. He’s slow though. That’s why my crow will win.”

                “She’s a woman,” argues Renly.

                Across the aisle, Margaery spots Jaime Lannister walking up the stairs. “I’ll be right back. Bathroom.”

                She follows him, bumping off of people to keep pace.

                “Chief Lannister!” she calls.

                Jaime turns around, perplexed. “Ms. Tyrell. To what do I owe the pleasure?” His voice betrays the irritation that she associates partially with his surprise loss.

                “I wanted to congratulate you on a good performance,” Margaery says as she comes to a stop in front of him.

                “Right, an excellent job, losing to a new runt,” Jaime sneers. “I would have beaten your brother.”

                “Of course,” Margaery smirks. Remembering what she wants to say, Margaery drops the smirk. “I also want to give my condolences for the loss of your nephew.”

                Jaime sobers at the comment. “Yes, it is quite sad. I was never close to him though. His accident is tragic and he will be missed.” He won’t look her in the eye and starts twitching his leg. There’s something he’s hiding.

                “I know you’re close with Cersei though. This must be taking a toll on her,” Margaery concedes. She rests a comforting hand against Jaime’s arm.

                “It is,” Jaime admits.

                “I’ll let you go to be with your family now. Let Cersei know that I’m willing to help her however necessary,” Margaery offers.

                Jaime smiles thankfully. “I will Ms. Tyrell. You’re very kind.”

                Without the previous frustration, he turns and walks away.

Margaery returns to find Renly with his arms crossed across his chest and Ygritte with arms crossed across her chest.

                “What happened?” she asks.

                “She said my hair looks stupid,” Renly pouts.

                “He called me a Wildling,” Ygritte says.

                Margaery takes her seat. “I’m not your mother. Renly stop acting like a spoiled brat. And Ygritte stop being mean to Renly.”

                The whistle blows and the crowd roars once more. Shouts of “Loras!” arise from one end of the crowd, “Jon”! from another, but the loudest are for the one in blue, whose name no one knows.

                Three man matchups are rare in the world of fencing. Jon and Loras look at each other and nod. They spread around the mat and approach the blue fighter from either side. Each step is measured as though they are intruders sneaking past a sleeping Lady. The crowd boos the tactic, but Margaery doesn’t mind it. Whatever it takes to win.

                The blue fighter looks between Loras and Jon. Jon lunges forward. The blue fighter catches his sword and knocks it off before swiping his own sword. Jon manages to dodge. Because points are only scored from hits to the chest, Loras tries to find an angle at which to attack the distracted fighter, but can’t.

                Once on the pursuit, nothing stop the fighter in blue. Jon struggles to block the lunges and swipes.

                “Don’t screw me over Jon! Or else the only one screwing you tonight will be the Others!” Ygritte yells.

                “Loras! Take him out Loras!” shouts Margaery. She looks down at Renly, who merely watches the spectacle in amusement.

                Loras tries to lunge forward, but the mystery fighter shoves him to the ground while blocking another swipe from Jon. With Loras out of the way, the blue fighter takes the offensive, swiping at Jon. He catches Jon off balance and lunges forward, easily putting him away.

                “No! Damn you, you twat!” shouts Ygritte.

                “It’s only a match,” says Renly.

                “Shut up. You’re still in it.” Ygritte says.

                Distracted by Renly and Ygritte’s bickering, Margaery misses the action as a wild cheer comes from the crowd. Loras throws his mask to the ground in frustration.

                The fencer in blue takes off their mask. A short, thin bit of blond hair flies up. The crowd collectively gasps.

                “That’s the woman from the moving company,” says Margaery. Small world.

                The crowd quiets, shocked that for the first time a woman has won the King’s Landing Fencing Championship.

                Finally Renly claps his hands quickly. “Brava Brienne. Brienne! Brienne! Brienne!”

                The rest of the crowd catches on quickly. Soon everyone in the audience chants her name.

                “How do you know her?” Margaery asks as she and Renly trail behind Ygritte on their way to the locker room. Ygritte shoves people out of the way, frustrated with her loss of not only twenty dragons for Brienne winning the contest, but also five more dragons because Brienne was a woman.

                “We were friends as children. The kids around Storm’s End used to bully her because of her appearance. She was always nice to me though, so I was nice to her,” Renly shrugs.

                Renly has always had a kind heart. Sometimes Margaery wonders how he was drawn into the cut throat, deceptive world of journalism. Except it seems obvious. Renly wanted to be the difference, the true difference. To help people and tell them things that truly mattered. Having a front-page photo didn’t hurt his ego either.

                They wait in the holding room outside the locker room. Aside from the final three, all the other fencers have come and gone. The door opens and Ygritte pops up, ready to chew out Jon. Rather than Jon, Brienne steps through.

                Nevertheless, Ygritte stomps forward. “You cost me twenty-five dragons! I can’t afford twenty-five dragons!”

                Brienne steps back. She likely wasn’t expecting to be confronted by an angry red-head northerner first thing after her fight.

                Margaery grabs Ygritte’s arm and pulls her away. “Bad Ygritte. It’s not her fault she’s better than Jon.”

                Ygritte scowls and crosses her arms over her chest.

                Meanwhile, Renly replaces Ygritte. “Congratulations, Brienne. That was a fine performance.”

                Margaery turns back to see the large gap-toothed smile on Brienne’s freckled face. “You’re too kind Renly. It’s been ages, hasn’t it?”

                Renly chuckles. “It has indeed. You haven’t changed a bit.”

                “Neither have you. What are you doing here? If I remember, you weren’t a big fan of dueling.”

                “My boyfriend was one of the fencers. The one with the gold uniform and flower design.”

                Brienne’s smile disappeared. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hit him that hard.”

                Assured that Ygritte wouldn’t pounce again, Margaery joins them. “Don’t worry about it. Loras needs a good kick in the arse sometimes.”

                “Ms. Tyrell,” says Brienne. The stern way Brienne speaks to her puts her off.

                “Yes,” Margaery smiles. “You moved my things to Alayne Stone’s house.”

                “I remember. Tell Ms. Stone I say hello.” She turns back to Renly, much more at ease when she addresses him. “I must go now. Father and I are going to dinner.”

                Renly shakes her hand. “Very well. Tell Selwyn I send my good wishes.”

                Jon and Loras come out together in time to see Renly bid Brienne farewell.

                “You’re fraternizing with the enemy. How could you?” asks Loras, still upset over his loss.

                “She’s not the enemy, Loras. It was just a bit of friendly competition,” Renly says.

                Ygritte comes over and smacks Jon on the shoulder. “Speak for yourself. You didn’t lose twenty-five dragons.”

                “Ow! What was that for?” asks Jon. He rubs his shoulder. Ygritte rears her hand back to smack his shoulder again. Margaery catches it just in time.

                “I just said I lost twenty-five dragons because of you, you know-nothing!”

                “Wait you didn’t lose? You bet against me, didn’t you?” asks Loras.

                “She’s a brilliant fighter, Lor. She used to demolish all the boys in high school.” Renly wraps his arm around Loras. “Don’t take it personally. I can take you out to a constellation dinner now.”

                “Whatever,” mumbles Loras.

                “I believed in you, brother. I would never betray you for the guarantee of money,” Margaery teases.

                “See my sister is loy- wait. You thought she was going to win too?!” Loras’s head inches forward slightly in shock. “Marge!”

                “No… I thought it would be Jon. But that doesn’t matter. I stuck by you and supported you, unlike _some people,_ ” she successfully shifts the focus back to Renly.

                Renly shrugs off Loras’ glare. “Alright, pay up so we can have an apology dinner.”

                Margaery takes out twenty dragons from her purse. She’s about to close her purse when Ygritte leans in and whispers, “Can you spot me 15 dragons? I just paid rent and bought…things…”

                “What kind of ‘things’?” Margaery tilts her head, a little ticked off. She does this all the time. Yes, she’s good to make it up, but it’s a little annoying right now.

                “Just…things…for me and Jon…” Margaery holds her line of sight until Ygritte huffs, “Jon wanted to try some stuff with handcuffs after yours ended up in my bed.”

                “Ew. EWWW YOU KINKY PERVERTS!!” Margaery cries out, mostly to mortify Ygritte, which doesn’t work. “Why did you make the bet if you couldn’t hold your end?”

                “I thought Jon was going to win!” whines Ygritte, glaring daggers at the back of Jon’s curly head as he talks with one of the ushers. Margaery takes out another fifteen dragons and gives the money to Renly.

                As she says goodbye to Loras and Renly, she hears Jon and Ygritte bicker, which continues to the car. Somewhere along the way, Margaery isn’t sure when since she blocked them out, their bickering turned into a quick apology from Ygritte. Jon forgives her, as always.

                They make it to the car before her, so Margaery clicks the unlock button. Ygritte follows Jon into the backseat and immediately hops into his lap, kissing him roughly.

                Margaery speeds to the car. By the time she gets there Ygritte has flipped herself underneath Jon, her hand tangled in his hair.

                “No! Nope! Not while I’m driving!” With a surprising amount of strength, she yanks Jon out of the car and walks him around to the passenger seat. “Sit!” She shoves him into the seat and buckles him in, accidentally pinching his thumb in the buckle.

                She stomps around the car to the driver’s side as the sun begins to dip below the horizon. Twisting back to Ygritte she says, “If you even touch him before you are out of my car at the apartment complex I will take back my TV.”

                Ygritte slips her hands behind her, trying to look like the angel she clearly isn’t.

                The threat works until they leave the arena parking lot. That’s when Ygritte leans forward and says. “I can’t wait til we get home, babe. Do you want to be on top this time or should I?”

                In the mirror, Margaery watches Jon’s face redden.

                “Of course you want me on top. You come harder that way, even if it does take longer,” she continues. “And I love feeling those tight, hard pecs of yours. Are you getting hard now, love? Bet you are. Bet your practically straining out your tight, prissy jeans that show off your cute arse.”

                Margaery slams on the breaks, which causes Ygritte and Jon to lurch forward, smacking Ygritte’s face into the back of Jon’s seat.

                “What?” cries Ygritte.

                “Out. Both of you. Now,” Margaery turns to them. “I warned you and you didn’t believe me. The two of you can walk the rest of the way.”

                A raindrop splashes off the windshield, then another, followed by a steady stream. “I would walk fast if I were you. It’s supposed to rain hard.”

                “But I didn’t do nothin’,” says Jon.

                “Do you want me to call Alayne?” Margaery threatens. Oh gods, she just used her girlfriend as a weapon.

                Jon scurries out of the car. He opens the back door and drags Ygritte out. “Drive safe,” he says before Ygritte can protest.

                Opening the front door, Margaery braces herself for Lady to jump on her, which she does. The furry beast gets off her and wags her tail. Seeing the front door still open, she darts to the front yard and marks a couple of bushes.

                After a short sniffing spree, Lady comes back, wagging her tail harder as Margaery strokes her back while she passes. She picks the mail up off the floor just before Lady steps on it. Flipping through, she notices a letter addressed to her, forwarded from her apartment.

                As she’s about to open it her phone rings the “Rains of Castamere.” Normally she’s not one for ironic jokes, but as much as her grandmother loathes the song, Margaery couldn’t resist assigning her the tone.

                “Hello my dearest grandmother, what brings this pleasant call?” Margaery asks. She goes upstairs to her room. Tired of sitting around by herself, Lady follows.

                The speakerphone setting on her phone is the perfect volume while she changes from her tight jeans into a pair of sweatpants.

                “A friendly call for my favorite granddaughter, dearie. I assume you heard you will be an aunt soon?”

                Margaery tugs t-shirt over her head. She picks her phone off her bed and lays back against the headboard. “Was that what the letter says? Garlan and Leonette are having a baby?”

                “Took them long enough. They’ve been together how long? A millennium?” Olenna huffs impatiently.

                “They’ve been married for two years.”

                Lady hops onto the bed and curls up next to Margaery. The bed is half the size of Alayne’s bed, so it’s a tighter squeeze. The dog lays her head on Margaery’s legs.

                “Luther and I were together seven months before I brought your father into this world. Better late than never I suppose. The seven know I won’t be getting grandchildren from you or your brother.”

                “You don’t know that,” Margaery says, stroking Lady’s ear. Children had never been on her agenda. Neither had love though and…well things could still change.

                Hearing she was to be an aunt lifted Margaery’s heart. Despite her own feelings of never having children herself, she always imagined herself as an aunt. The kind that would sneak her niece or nephew out of school early for a fun day, while providing them a proper education of things they didn’t teach in school. Ygritte would be good help for that.

                Loras would be just as thrilled. He’d always wanted a little brother, and though he adored Margaery, he sometimes admitted that he wished he could switch places with Garlan in birth order. It would be like an opportunity to have a little brother, possibly.

                “I’ll believe it when I see it,” Olenna scoffs. “I heard that Lannister boy died. Did you get what you needed from him before you knocked him off?”

                “Grandmother, don’t joke about those things. It’s very sad,” Margaery scolds.

                “Yes, for some people I suppose. Many had little affection for him.”

                There was an opportunity here, if Margaery could properly angle her approach.

                “I would imagine the northerners are among them.”

                Never one to be fooled, Olenna says, “What are you getting at, girl?”

                “Just, he spoke callously of the Starks. I imagine those feelings are reciprocated. Especially of Sansa Stark.”

                “Ah, I see where this is going now. Bored of the Lannisters and looking for new playmates,” Olenna tuts.

                “I want an unbiased opinion of the Stark girls. Not one from a northerner who worshipped their father and not one from a Lannister who loathed his betrothed,” Margaery rolls on her stomach, upsetting Lady. She growls and rolls onto her side, taking up more of the bed than before. “Who better to ask than the Queen of Thorns, Senator Olenna Tyrell.”

                “I never met the Starks,” Olenna says.

                “You have a picture of yourself shaking hands with Eddard Stark on your mantle, right next to the picture of you toasting drinks with Jon Arryn if I recall correctly.”

                “I taught you the art of my deals too well, my dear. Too smart for your own god. Alright, you want to know of the Stark girls?” Olenna says. Eventually, she would have given in regardless.

                “Yes. What were they like? And why are there no bloody pictures of them anywhere?” Margaery scratches Lady’s belly. Eager for more scratches, Lady scoots closer.

                “Eddard and Catelyn hated people taking pictures of their girls. They sheltered all their children. News photographers never attained a picture of Rob until he was 15. After that, they kept stricter watch on the girls and Bran and Rickon. The Starks were many things, but they loved their children fiercely. As much as your father and I love you and your brothers.”

                “Yes, grandmother.” Downstairs, the front door swings shut. Lady’s ears perk at the sound of her mother’s return. She sits up, but doesn’t leave the bed, preferring Margaery’s comforting rubs to greeting the door again.

                “The girls were opposites in every way. Arya was a tomboy. The one time I saw the family, Arya was out in the yard chasing around her little brother. Came back in muddier than a sand snake. Loud as Megga used to be. As the girl still is in fact. When she wasn’t outside she bickered with her sister the day I was there. Catelyn had to separate the girls after Arya pulled Sansa’s hair.

                “Sansa was her mother’s daughter in every way. Quiet, graceful, loved to knitting and dresses. She spoke politely and softly, meek. Until Arya came around that is. There was a fire there, but the only one who ever brought it out was Arya. ”

                Margaery could imagine the smile on Olenna’s face as she reminisced on the years gone.

                “The girl looked just like Catelyn. She had the Tully blue eyes and nose, hair that was redder than Catelyn’s. Tall for her age. Arya took after Eddard. She had his dull brown hair, brown eyes, long face. The prototypical Stark.”

                The floor creaks and Margaery looks over her shoulder as her grandmother talks. Alayne stands in her doorway, leaning against the frame. Margaery rolls onto her back and motions for Alayne to come in.

                “What about their other siblings? How did they interact with them?” She needs a firm understanding of how the girls acted if she would write a story on them. Maybe her angle would be how the murders changed them.

                “Bran and Arya liked to run around together. This was before Bran’s accident of course. Arya was about 8 I believe, which would make Sansa around 11. Robb was 14. He also took after Catelyn more, though not as much as Sansa. They got on much better than Sansa and Arya. Now, there was also a cousin who stayed with the Starks, but I can’t for the life of me remember his name. Derrin? Jayson? Doesn’t matter now I suppose.”

                Alayne shoos Lady off of the bed, but pats her head when she obeys. Then she rests her head against Margaery’s chest.

                “I’ve got to go dearie. Your brother is calling me and I’ve ignored his call twice today already. I love you my little rose,” Olenna says.

                “Love you too, grandmother. Tell Garlan I say hi. And congratulations,” Margaery hangs up.

                A loud yawn from a large wolf-dog breaks the silence in the room. The girls laugh as they both sit up. Alayne cups Margaery’s cheeks and kisses her.

                “How was work?” asks Margaery

                “Good. Signed some checks, met some customers. Routine things. How was your day?” Alayne pulls Margaery against her shoulder. The tattoo of the little yellow and red rose peeks out from the neckline of her shirt.

                Margaery sighs. “I need new friends.” There’s pang in her chest at the memory of Alayne’s words a couple weeks ago.

                Alayne chuckles and lifts Margaery’s head off her shoulder. “What did your grandmother want?”

                “I was just asking her some questions for my story. I want an unbiased view of the Starks,” Margaery explains. Her hand rests against Alayne’s knee, softly rubbing over the smooth fabric. “Oh. And guess who’s going to be an aunt?”

                Alayne bites her lip and looks up through the top of her eyes. “Uhhmmm, Allisane Thorne?”

                “No,” Margaery playfully shoves Alayne back against her pillows. Alayne hits the bed with a thud. Taking advantage of the moment, Margaery crawls on top of her. “It’s me.”

                “That’s great,” smiles Alayne. “You’ll be a wonderful aunt.”

                The response isn’t the innuendo filled prelude Margaery was expecting. She rolls on her side, flush against Alayne. “You think so?”

                Blue eyes light up at the too real concern in Margaery’s voice. “Of course, honey. I can’t imagine anyone better.”

                And Margaery can’t imagine sharing this moment with anyone else.


	16. Gut Instincts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So to anyone wondering why I updated the date of publishing on this fic, I just realized the last chunk of the chapter was missing. I'm so sorry!

A few days later, Margaery still hasn’t heard back from Cersei about a new interview date. Still, she tries to maintain her patience. It’s only been a few days since Joffrey’s funeral.

Cersei’s youngest son had invited her to the ceremony. For a couple days Margaery went back and forth on whether she should attend. It was a private ceremony, closed to press and the general public. Under normal circumstances, she would follow Jorah’s ethical rulebook, which dictated avoidance of such a clash of personal affilitation, unquestioningly. These weren’t normal circumstances. Attendance could prove to Cersei that she saw Joffrey as a real person, not just a source for an interesting feature article.

In the end, Margaery did go. Tommen Baratheon had greeted her and introduced her to the rest of his family. Myrcella was kind and sweet enough. Surely the two of them were adopted children, because they couldn’t possibly have been related to Joffrey.

The rest of the Baratheon and Lannister brood treated her indifferently. Quick handshakes, a ‘thank you’, and she was forgotten.

During the ceremony, she had caught glimpses of Cersei. Once crying over her son’s casket, once yelling at the Septon for mispronouncing Joffrey’s name, and once speaking fastidiously with an oddly feminine looking blond boy. Long yellow locks framed his face. He almost looked like a younger Cersei, save for the pathetic attempt at mustache.

She watched as Cersei glanced in her direction, then guided the apparent Lannister boy across the yard.

After the rest of the mourners departed, She found Cersei on the steps of the Sept. Shades of deep orange and purple lined the horizon as the sun set.

“Ms. Lannister,” Margaery had called.

Cersei turned. She had removed the black hat and veil she wore earlier that matched her slim black dress. “Ms. Tyrell. I didn’t know you had come.” A lie.

“I know I only knew Joffrey for several short weeks, but I still wanted to say my goodbyes. He made such an impact on me during a short time,” Margaery had said.

Cersei folded her hands together and glanced to the street. “Yes, he was apt to make quick impressions. Jaime told me of your well wishes at the tourney earlier this week.”

“I wanted you to know that I do care the well-being of you and your family, Ms. Lannister. Joffrey was more than a means to an end,” Margaery said.

Cersei looked down. “It is much appreciated, Ms. Tyrell.” She watched Cersei clench her fingers righter around each other. A black limo stopped at the bottom of the steps. “If you’ll pardon me, I must be going now. I have family and Joffrey’s loved ones to attend to.”

She didn’t glance back as she got in the limo and rode away.

Without any word from Cersei, it was a waiting game. A game which Margaery is currently losing.

She paces back and forth between her desk and Renly’s. “Really, what’s to stop us from just showing up at her house and asking for an on the spot interview? You’ve got your camera. Hook me up to a mic and we can catch it all on video.”

Renly sips his coffee. “I would, but I’d rather not have my equipment smashed by one of those security guards.”

“You know they’re not security. They’re the goons that do her hit work for her. Everyone in Flea Bottom says they saw that Rorge monster break a man’s neck on a sour deal.”

“And still the police do nothing. I know. I’m itching to confront her too,” Renly tosses his cup in the trash.

“You’re itching for me to stop bugging you,” Margaery says.

Renly slips on his jacket. “That’s true. A happy Marge equals happy work life, and happy work equals happy me,” Renly kisses Marge’s cheek. “I’m off. Let me know if Cersei calls back.”

After work she swings by the police station. Construction makes it difficult to find a parking spot, but she eventually does.

As she walks inside, she’s not expecting to see her favorite clerk sitting at the desk. “Missandei? What are you doing here?”

Missandei smiles her bright smile and says, “Hello Ms. Tyrell. Lommy asked me to switch shifts with him today. It’s nice to sleep human hours for once.”

Margaery laughs at the joke. “It is indeed. How’s your home life?”

“Wonderful,” says Missandei. “I just bought a new kitten. She’s very shy, but likes to cuddle. I might be getting a pay raise soon too.”

“Excellent,” says Margaery. “You wouldn’t happen to have any new reports about Joffrey’s death.”

“Even when you’re off the clock, you’re not really off the clock, are you?” Missandei pulls out a short stack of papers. “His autopsy report came in a few hours ago.”

Margaery reads through. Joffrey had multiple gashes as a result of his auto accident, several broken ribs, and a punctured lung. His face was purple with blood dripping out of his nose, based on police reports. The coroner concluded that Joffrey likely died of a broken rib cage puncturing his lung. The accident was a solo accident which police associated with drunk driving.

Oddly enough, Joffrey’s blood alcohol content was far below the level of drunk driving. Among the little items found in Joffrey’s car is a bottle of Braavosi gin, cigarette butts and a playing dart from Tiny Tyene.

“Peculiar,” Margaery murmurs. She has to remind herself that this isn’t her case. This burden falls on Myranda. She has no plans of helping that brat.

Margaery hands Missandei the stack. “Alright darling, have a nice evening. I’ll catch you later.”

“Always a pleasure, Ms. Tyrell,” says Missandei.

When she returns home, Margaery finds Alayne huddled over her laptop, fingers tapping away. The scarf she’s been knitting for the last week sits folded next to her, embroidery pins sticking out of it.

“What are you working on?” Margaery asks, sitting down beside her.

“Looking at things to do in Highgarden,” Alayne says. Lady nuzzles her head against Alayne’s knee, and Alayne scratches her ear.

“I don’t know when we can go yet. I still haven’t heard back from Cersei about a new interview. And Jorah hasn’t published the first article yet.”

“Doesn’t mean we can’t plan,” Alayne says and types away. “Would you say your brother would be nice enough to let us stay with him? If not, I have more than enough to splurge on a nice hotel room.”

“Garlan is a perfect gentleman with a pregnant wife. Of course he’ll say yes, but I don’t want to impose. Don’t worry about hotels. We can stay with Grandmother. She’ll insist upon it.” She’d likely be offended if they didn’t stay with her.

Alayne stares at Margaery. “We can’t. Either we’re staying with your brother or I’m going all out for a hotel room. I am not spending my vacation in fear of what that woman will do to me.”

Margaery leans into Alayne. “The worst she’ll do is ask if your satisfying me. Is that so terrible?”

“Yes,” says Alayne. “What about your dad? I’ve never met your parents.”

“We could, I suppose,” Margaery says.

From her purse, her phone rings. Margaery gets up and answers it.

“Hello Ms. Tyrell. Ms. Lannister said that she has a window in her schedule on Friday at noon if you would be available to meet with her then,” says the secretary whose voice Margaery has become so familiar with.

She brushes off the presumptiveness in her tone. “Absolutely. Let Ms. Lannister know my photographer and I will gladly be there.”

Without a thank you or goodbye, the woman on the other end hangs up.

Margaery puts her phone away and resumes her seat next to Alayne. Eyebrows raised toward her, Alayne asks, “Ms. Lannister?”

“My interview. Cersei is free Friday. We can start making those plans concrete,” Margaery shrugs.

Fur ruffled from Alayne’s petting, Lady moves in front of Margaery, ready for her soft strokes to smooth the roughness.

Margaery texts Renly the news, not noticing Alayne set down her laptop. She tries to ignore Lady poking her wet nose against her knee.

“Where?” asks Alayne.

“Where what?” asks Margaery absent mindedly.

“Where are you meeting her?” Alayne clarifies, voice hardened in frustration.

Margaery looks up from her phone. Alayne faces her, hair tucked behind one ear, a slight frown on her lips. “Her office, of course,” she sets aside her phone.

Although the location gave Cersei the upper hand in terms of control, it also gave the woman a sense of comfort. Comfort could easily turn into Cersei saying something she wouldn’t say if she didn’t feel in her element.

“Change it,” Alayne demands in the voice she uses with her employees.

“Excuse me?”

“Change it. Meet her at your office or at a coffeehouse. You can’t meet her there.” Alayne stands up as if that settles everything.

“No. I’m interviewing her at her office,” Margaery asserts. She stands up to look Alayne in the eye.

“If you’re going to do something that stupid, then at least take Jon with you,” Alayne attempts as a compromise.

“It’s not stupid, it’s business. You should know that,” Margaery argues.

 Alayne walks past Margaery to her bedroom. “It’s stupid business. You’ll be right where she wants you.”

“She’s right where I want her.” Margaery follows Alayne. Footsteps echo off the wood, complimented by Lady’s claws scratching against the wood.

Alayne doesn’t say anything as she takes off her blazer and tosses it in the dirty clothes bin. She lifts her camisole over her head and it joins the blazer.

Despite her anger, Margaery can’t keep herself from glancing down to the wolf tattoo on Alayne back. She can’t imagine a more apt symbol for her girlfriend.

She sits on the bed, padded by the bright blue comforter Alayne put on today for when the weather grows colder, and watches Alayne put on another shirt, a plain white v-neck.

“No matter what I do, you’ll never trust me will you?” Margaery says.

Alayne raises an eyebrow. “What are you talking about?”

“You don’t trust me,” Margaery repeats. “I’ve tried to be as honest as I can with you. I tell you what I’m doing with work, things that could get me fired if Jorah knew I told you, but that doesn’t make a difference to you. I don’t know why I expected anything different when you don’t tell me anything about yourself.”

She gets up and starts walking out. She’d said more than she wanted to, but damnit she was tired of being the bad guy. Honest to the Mother she was trying harder than she’d ever tried before in a relationship. And it hurt knowing the woman she was in lo-, the woman that she was with didn’t put the same faith in her.

She knows nothing about Alayne’s past. Nothing about her childhood, past friendships, past girlfriends or boyfriends, if she was even into girls before Margaery. All she knows is that Alayne is from the Vale and had a brother.

Alayne cuts her off. Margaery tries to shove past anyway, but Alayne catches her. “We’re not done.”

“I am,” says Margaery. She tries to step out of Alayne’s hold and bumps into Lady who is sitting and watching the fight unfold.

“Marge this is bothering you. We have to talk about it,” Alayne insists.

“Why now?” Margaery goes back to the bed.

Alayne sits down next to her. “You’ve never asked.”

“It never mattered to me,” says Margaery. She looks at Alayne’s eyes before focusing instead on her forehead. “I trusted that you would share the important things with me. In time.” Margaery scoffs. She looks at Alayne’s piercing stare. “You know, we’ve been together for a year and you’ve never spoken a word about your parents.”

                Alayne gingerly tucks one of Margaery’s wavy curls behind her ear. “There’s not much to tell.”

                Lady walks forward and nuzzles her head in the gap between Alayne’s knees. Alayne scratches her ears and looks at Lady as she says, “I never knew my parents. I don’t remember them anyway. I was placed in foster care when I was 2. I stayed there bouncing from living situation to living situation. Sometimes foster families, sometimes girls’ homes. When I was fourteen Petyr came to the Eyrie Children’s Hope and adopted me.” She turns her head sideways and looks at Margaery. “I was never really treated like a daughter, more like a protégé. He was looking for an heir of sorts to mold in his image and take over his business empire.”

                Margaery scoots closer. “What about your brother?”

                “My brother?” Remembrance dawns on her face. “I never knew him either. That picture was one of the few trinkets they left me in the foster system.”

                After a moment of silence, Margaery hugs Alayne. Strong arms wrap around her in response, holding her tight. “I’m sorry.”

                She couldn’t imagine not knowing her parents or her brothers. Even though she hardly knew Willas before his accident, she still has feint memories of him reading to her. Having none of that to go on seems horrible.

                “I’m not. It’s made me who I am,” says Alayne.

                Margaery lets her go. “I’m sorry I made you tell me. I just feel stressed and anxious about work and my frustration has been boiling over. It doesn’t change anything you know. It doesn’t change how I think of you or how I love you or-”

                She stops mid-sentence, eyes widening and heart thumping. She knew she was rambling, trying to find the right words to apologize with and… seven hells it just spilled out.

                She scrambles for the right words to clarify what she means. Others take her, she hadn’t given this the proper thought.

                Panicked as Margaery is, she’s taken by surprise when Alayne kisses her hard, pushing her down against the bed. For the rest of the night Alayne makes her forget everything except Alayne and the thought of why she was crazy enough to not tell her she loved her before.

                And yet…

                Laying in bed, Alayne’s arms wrapped tight around her own in sleep as she spooned Alayne, Margaery’s brain wouldn’t let her sleep. She couldn’t shove out the thought that something wasn’t right.

                She kisses Alayne’s bare shoulder and gently extracts her arms away from the vice grip they’re in. She rolls on her back. Then the thought hits her. It had been a year and a half since she interviewed Petyr Baelish about his restaurant opening, but she was certain he never mentioned having a daughter, adopted or not. Undeniably the man had his secrets. Adoptions weren’t usually things one could easily hide though. Margaery prided herself on thoroughly researching the people she interviewed and Petyr Baelish was no different. Anything pertaining to legal matters and contracts, Margaery knew inside and out about her sources. Petyr Baelish has 3 traffic tickets, a DUI, and an annulment to the late Lysa Arryn on his record. Nothing that Margaery recalls ever indicated he adopted.

                It’s a ridiculous thought. Why would anyone lie about being adopted? Or perhaps Margaery had accidentally skipped the adoption papers when she read his record? No, she wouldn’t have.

                She rolls onto her side again and stares at the back of Alayne’s head. Alayne’s never lied to her before, has she? Margaery wasn’t sure anymore. She’d never had reason to question Alayne before, but in the early hours of the morning she found herself questioning every conversation she’d had with her. Which only made her feel guilty. What if she was wrong?

                Although she eventually falls into a restless sleep, the thoughts and questions nagged her throughout work the next morning.

                “Margaery, you’ve been awfully quiet today,” Renly says as he packed away his laptop. “What’s bothering you?”

                Margaery shakes her head and types the final paragraph for the story was she is writing for tomorrow’s paper. “Nothing is wrong. Thinking about how to approach this interview with Cersei, that’s all.”

                Renly nods. “Take a break then and get some coffee. You look a mess.” He says goodbye and gently shuts the door behind him.

                Margaery proofreads her article. She hates it. Passive voice everywhere, misspelled names. She hasn’t written anything so poor since high school. She slams her laptop shut and tousles her hair in frustration.

                She needs to put this paranoia with Alayne to rest. Fortunately, she has the perfect source to deny her silly fears.

                The number for The Vale Child Services is near the end of the phonebook. After waiting on hold for several minutes, the man on the other side connects her to the person she asks for.

                “Child Adoption services, how may I be of assistance?” asks the woman on the other end.

                “Hello cousin, it’s been too long,” says Margaery.

                “Margaery, is that you?” asks the woman.

                “The one and only,  Megga,” says Margaery.

“Oh, it’s so good to hear from you. It’s been ages,” says Megga.

                Megga Tyrell had been Margaery’s closest cousin as a child. They were the same age and thus did everything together. Megga was more boisterous and ditsy than Margaery, but until university they were inseparable.

                “Are you and that girlfriend of yours adopting?” Megga asks excitedly. She was always one for gossip, especially to start it.

                “No. Actually I need your help with something. Do you have access to a list of people who have adopted in the past?”

                The lightness in Megga’s voice goes away. “Margaery, that’s confidential. You of all people know you need to file with the Freedom of Information Office to receive that information.”

                “Meg, please,” Margaery pleads. “It’s not for a story. It’s personal.”

                Megga sighs. She hears the fast clicking of a keyboard. “What do you need, honey?”

                “Has Petyr Baelish ever adopted a child in the Vale?”

                For several moments, the only sounds are Megga’s breathing and the clicking of the keyboard.

                Finally, Megga says, “Sorry, Marge. No Petyr Baelish on the record.”

                Margaery’s heart sinks. “Thanks, Megga. I’ll let you get back to work.”

                Her voice sounds deflated. She hangs up quickly to avoid Megga’s inevitable questions.

                Margaery’s career has been built on correct hunches and gut instincts. Always sure of herself and what she knew, she never thought she’d want to be wrong. One gut instinct had led to the loss of everything she knew.


	17. Interview with a Queen

 She’d walked the steps to the L&C front entrance half a dozen times before. Never has she felt this intimidated. High above them slightly overcast clouds roll through the sky. The first rain in days.

               Beside her, Renly carries his camera and tripod. “Are you sure you’re okay Margaery? We can ask Cersei to reschedule if you’re not feeling well.”

               “I’m fine, Renly. Haven’t you seen someone get nervous before?” Margaery steps out of the way of a man in a suit hurrying past.

               Renly wasn’t completely wrong. It had been days since she had a proper night’s sleep. Since learning about Alayne’s deceit, Margaery had dug around for records on her girlfriend. The more she searched, the more distraught she became.

               Nothing. There was nothing on Alayne Stone. No police records, no high school graduations, no previous jobs. No school in the Vale kept a record of an Alayne Stone; nor did any in King’s Landing. Margaery asked Megga to find records of an Alayne Stone in the foster system. The only one was a four-year old girl who had been adopted last year. Before the last three years, there had been no records of Alayne.

               When Margaery checked with the county court, however, they provided her with a birth certificate for Alayne with her father and mother’s name. She sought them out and found nothing. Things weren’t making sense.

               Over the last two days, she practically lived in her office. The only time she’d gone back home- no not home- to Alayne’s house, was well after midnight. She’d gone straight to her bed to sleep before waking up early to go to the courthouse.

               Consequentially, Margaery’s new mission had left her little time to prepare for her interview with Cersei.

               Looking up at the large letters of towering above her head, Margaery realizes her error. She takes a breath. This is Cersei Lannister. She knows how to deal with Cersei. Don’t push too hard, but don’t let her get comfortable. It was a game of verbal fencing.

               She shuts off her worries about Alayne and her lingering thoughts about the Starks. Focusing on Cersei is her only priority.

               She lets Renly go inside without her as she collects herself for the interview. Once her thoughts revolve solely around Cersei and her questions for her, Margaery goes in.

               Immediately, she stops in her tracks. All her fire for her interview is doused by the sight the curly haired, stoic man standing in the corner of the lobby, arms folded across his chest.

               “What in the name of the Stranger are you doing here?!” Margaery demands.

               Jon turns toward her. “Hi, Margaery. What are you here for?”

               Margaery places her hands on her hips. “Answer my question. Alayne sent you, didn’t she.”

               “To make a deposit,” Jon held up an envelope swollen with dragons. Yet, he wouldn’t look her in the eye. More lies.

               “Unbelievable. Don’t bullshit me. I know she sent you to babysit me.”

               Jon drops the act. “She wants to make sure you’re safe, that’s all. You know-”

               “Yes I know!” Margaery yells. She doesn’t care if she’s in a bank lobby. She’s tired of the deception. “I know what Cersei can do! I know I’m endangering myself. I don’t need her trying to hold my hand every step of the way when I’ve been at this for a year!”

               The glass door shuts, drawing Margaery’s attention. Cersie stands at the entrance wearing a power suit and a dramatic new pixie cut. Margaery watches Cersei’s questioning eyes turned to daggers in the span of a few seconds she spends. Cersei glances to Margaery.

               “Ms. Tyrell, I believe you said your photographer was coming. You never mentioned this…,” Cersei spits. Margaery isn’t sure how much Cersei heard, but any amount couldn’t have been good.

               “He’s a friend, Ms. Lannister. We ran into each other. My photographer is upstairs setting up as we speak.”

               Cersei eyes Jon. “I see. Don’t be long Ms. Tyrell. My time is valuable.”

               The woman struts toward the elevator.

               Margaery turns back to Jon. “Go Jon. Now.”

               Jon holds his ground. “You’re the one who needs to go. Your interview starts in five minutes.”

               Margaery glances at the clock over the receptionist’s desk. He’s right.

               Left to choose between arguing with Jon and doing her job, Margaery chooses the latter.

               Alayne had no right to interfere with her work. Margaery thought she had made herself clear. She thought that Alayne understood that she could protect herself. Apparently she couldn’t even be trusted to manage an interview on her own. The constant lies and mistrust were suffocating her. What was there left to give in a relationship with such blatant holes?

               By the time she reaches Cersei’s office, her thoughts remain consumed with Alayne rather than her work at hand.

               “Shall we begin?” Cersei smiles, hands folded together on top her desk.

               “Yes Ms. Lannister, absolutely,” Margaery says. Seven hells, she sounds like an amateur.

               Renly flashes her a smile as he adjusts the lighting on his LED stand. Margaery takes out her phone, presses record and puts it on the desk.

               “Thank you for having us Ms. Lannister,” Margaery stretches her hand to shake Cersei’s. Cersei stares at it for a moment.

               “You’re welcome, Ms. Tyrell. I believe we should bypass these formalities. I have many things to do.”

               Margaery retracts her hand. “Of course.”

               “You come from one of the most notable families in Westeros, yet you’ve forged your own fame in the banking industry separate from your father. How have you achieved that, Ms. Lannister.” Cersei is the kind of woman who needs her ego stroked to open up.

               Cersei smiles. “Ambition and intelligence. My father encouraged my brother and I to embrace our strengths. I did that and more. As a woman in the financial industry, you have to scratch and claw to reach the pinnacle. My success hasn’t come cheap.”

               I bet it hasn’t, thinks Margaery. “And in what ways has your father…influenced your work.”

               “The same as most successful women, I assume. I listened when he taught told Jaime how to succeed in business; Jaime did not. When I pointed out how better fit I was to lead the family business, he laughed. That sparked a fire to prove him wrong,” Cersei says.

               “Which family business might that be, Ms. Lannister?” Margaery asks.

               Cersei leans forward. “You’re sitting in it. Ms. Tyrell, let me share a little history with you. Thirty years ago this bank was an afterthought. My father made it solely to get an easy loan for his other investments. That’s how he built his coal empire and eventually the Lannister Natural gas industry. He wanted all of it to go to Jaime. He left me with a little bank. That little bank now competes with the Iron Bank as the most profitable bank in the world.”

               Snap. Flash. Renly had picked the noisy camera.

               “Some would question the morals of funding family businesses with a family bank,” Margaery says.

               “Some have,” Cersei flashes a smile, just in time for the next snap. “Once they realize the good L&C does for the country’s economy, they typically shut up.”

               Time to change course. “Before his recent passing, Joffrey spoke to me about his grooming to one day take over various family businesses. His death must be devastating to your future plans.”

               Cersei eyes narrow into a glare, her fingers click against the table. Snap. “My son’s death was heartbreaking. As a mother, my greatest creation was my children. The last thing on my mind is how his death will impact business. I have to her children who lost a brother. The gap in their lives is my greatest concern.”

               “I understand. I’m sorry if I’ve touched a tender spot. I couldn’t possibly return to the office without asking,” Margaery excused herself.

               Still tapping her fingers, Cersei smiled tight-lipped. “Of course, dear. I do know how that hardened editor of yours likes to twist his sources’ arms. You’ve learned well from him.”

               “Excuse me?” Margaery asks. She turns to Renly, who shrugged.

               “Silly girl, do you think I don’t know who you are? ‘Rose Heller’, what a ridiculous pseudonym. I’ll not continue working with a rat spreading lies about my family.” Cersei leans forward and takes Margaery’s phone, turning off the recording. She presses a buzzer underneath her desk. “Please have Mr. Baratheon escorted out of the building.”

               Two security guards march in and grab Renly by the arms. Margaery turns, but knows better than to get up.

               “I watched you manipulate my son like a jack-knife. I admit, for a moment even I was charmed by you. That little bodyguard of yours gave you away.” Cersei says.

               Margaery breathes out. “Ms. Lannister-”

               Cersei struts forward, inches away from Margaery’s face. “Shut up. Your lies are the reason my son is dead! If you ever write a single word about my family again, your body will be disfigured beyond recognition. Get out!”

               “Joffrey died in a bloody car accident. How is that my fault?!” Margaery demands.

               Cersei presses the intercom button again. “Escort Ms. Tyrell.”

               Two more security guards come in. As Margaery gathers her things, Cersei says, “Keep your head on a swivel. A Lannister always pays her debts.”

               As Margaery is about to step out the door Cersei adds, “And tell Mr. Snow he’s looking well.”

               One of the guards tries to drag Margaery out by her arm. She slaps his hand away and walks to the elevator alone.

               Her interview couldn’t have gone any worse. She wasn’t prepared and it showed. Margaery shuts her eyes. It’s Alayne’s fault. Alayne’s lies distracted her from focusing on this interview which she has worked months to get. Alayne sent Jon despite knowing Margaery did not want him there. Her eyes fly open as the bell dings and the door opens. She scoots over a step as more people get in the elevator.

               Cersei knew Jon. Knew him quite well it seemed. They wanted to sabotage her interview. Alayne has been trying to keep her away from Cersei for months. How ever Jon knew Cersei, it clearly did not end well. Alayne used that knowledge to ruin her one opportunity to talk to Cersei.

               The clouds have grown darker, the air more humid, and no rain. As she walks down the steps, she hears Jon call out, “Hey Marge, how did it go?”

               Ignoring him, she goes straight to Renly.

               “Did you get the equipment?” he asks.

               “Didn’t have a chance,” says Margaery. “They won’t let us in to retrieve it now.”

               Renly sighs. “5,000 dragons of equipment wasted.”

               Jon’s footsteps close in behind her. “What happened in there?”

               Margaery’s eyes darken at the annoyance. Recognizing her anger, Renly says, “I’m going to get the car. Pick you up here?”

               “Please,” says Margaery.

               As Renly gets the car, Margaery turns her attention to Jon. His round, sad, big brown eyes, the ones that secretly make Ygritte melt behind closed doors, fail to chill Margaery’s rage. If anything, they fuel it.

               “Margaery, what happened?” Jon asks again.

               “We had a lovely chat. Talked about her business and family. And she wants you to know that you look as good as she remembers,” Margaery snarks.

               “I don’t know her,” Jon says, but his voice hitches.

               Renly’s gold sedan rolls to a stop on the street.

               “She sure as hell knew you,” she says. She gets in the car and slams the door behind her.

               A year of partnership taught Renly to let her stew when interviews went wrong, a rarity in itself. She stares at the cars speeding in the opposite direction.  “I fucked up,” she finally says.

               “You can’t control what that woman does,” Renly assures.

               “I should have been worried about Cersei, not Alayne. I didn’t come prepared and I fucked up,” she insists.

               “Why are you worried about Alayne?” he asks.

               Margaery looks at him. “We’ve… she told me something and… I found out it wasn’t true.”

               He nods. “Did you talk to her about it?”

               “I don’t know how to. And then she sent Jon after me like a babysitter. That’s what cost us the interview.”

               “What are you talking about?”

“Cersei knew Jon. She recognized him and blew up because of it. If Alayne had let me be, our interview would have gone without any hitches. Now we’ll be lucky to get this damn piece published,” she clenches her fist tight.

               When they pass Wallard’s, she realizes that they aren’t going back to the office. “Why are you taking me to Alayne’s house?”

               “One, I don’t think you should be driving right now. You and Loras are alike in turning into speed racers when you're pissed. I don’t think he’d be happy if I let you get in an accident with your car. Second, you need to talk your girlfriend. Whatever’s going on between you two, you need to resolve it. Not for work, but for you. Margaery, you looked like you’d hardly slept in days this morning. What’s happening with her?” Renly turns down Alayne’s street.

               “She’s being a hypocrite.”

               “Just because of Jon?” he parks on the street across from Alayne’s house. Her car is in the driveway, so she is home.

               “So much more than Jon,” mutters Margaery. She gets out of the car.

               “I’m going to wait out here, okay? If things turn ugly, I’d like to be a safe distance away.” The joke falls flat.

               Finding the door unlocked, she lets herself in. The carpet looks almost pure white and the air smells of lemon-scented cleaner. The tables shine from a fresh dusting.

               When Lady doesn’t run forward to assault her, Margaery knows she’s on a walk with Alayne.

               Rather than loiter for Alayne, Margaery walks down the hall to Alayne’s room. The drawn blinds allow bright afternoon sunlight to spill across the bed. On the nightstand lays the photo of Alayne and her brother. Margaery sits on the corner of the bed and turns it over. The back is blank. She flips it again and focuses on the boy in the photo. There’s something familiar about him. He’s her brother, of course he looks familiar, Margaery thinks. Can she believe that though? If Alayne lied about Petyr adopting her, whose to say this isn’t some random children? She’s yet to find proof that Alayne lived in the Vale. What if that was a lie too?

               The front door opens and shuts. The jingling of Lady’s leash echoes down the hall.

               “Marge, are you home? Why is Renly sitting in his car? He knows he’s welcome any time,” Alayne hollers.

               Margaery goes into the living room. Alayne slips off her tennis shoes and smiles. “How was work?”

               Unbelievable. “Why don’t you ask Jon. He can tell you about it as much as I can.”

               The smile falls from Alayne’s face. Unaware of the shift in mood, Lady bounds toward Margaery, wagging her tail in excitement.

               “He wasn’t supposed to be obvious,” Alayne finally says.

               Margaery struts past Lady, “That’s it? You went behind my back, after I told you I didn’t want you intervening, and that’s all you have to say?!”

               Alayne stares at her blankly. Lady brushes against Margaery’s leg, as if having the over 100 lb. beast bumping into her knee is supposed to be soothing.

               Margaery nudges a loose strand of hair out of her face. “Your plan worked. Cersei didn’t say shit and any chances I have of approaching her again are gone.”

               “I’m sorry, Margaery. I didn’t mean to interfere, I just wanted you to be safe. I-”

               Margaery cuts her off. “I don’t need your fucking protection! I’m not a child! Seven hells, I’m older than you! Next time you want to ‘protect’ me, at least send someone Cersei doesn’t know.”

               Margaery walks to the couch and sits. Alayne follows her. “Cersei knew him?”

               “Yes. Loathes him, actually,” Margaery says.

               Alayne’s face pales.

               “What is it?” Margaery asks.

               “Nothing,” Alayne mumbles.

               Another blatant lie. Margaery gets up and goes to her room. A few minutes later, she returns with a bag of clothes.

               “What are you doing?” Alayne asks.

               “I’m tired of your hypocrisy. I’m not doing this tonight,” Margaery says.

               “Doing what? I’m not being a hypocrite,” Alayne gets up and stands in front of her.

               “You are,” insists Margaery. “You ask me to trust you, but you don’t trust me to tell me your past.” Alayne tries to interrupt, but Margaery presses on, gaining fervor as she speaks. “Don’t pretend that sob story you gave me the other day was true. Petyr Baelish never adopted a child. Did you even live in the Vale? Who lies about that? I am tired of being turned into a fool for you.”

               Margaery starts for the door.

               “Marge, can we talk. Please,” Alayne asks.

               Margaery faces her, arms folded over her chest, gripping the bag of clothes at her side. “Are you going to tell me the truth?”

               Alayne steps closer. “Baby, the truth is…complicated.”

               Margaery scoffs. “No, darling, it’s not.” She grabs her leather jacket and storms out of the house. Behind her Alayne yells her name and asks for her to come back again. Not now. She had her chance. It’s her turn to fret with unanswered questions.

               The tiny raindrops begin to fall from the overcast sky. By the time she reaches the car, they’ve formed a steady rhythm.

               She doesn’t meet Renly’s eyes. “Take me to Ygritte’s.”

               Alayne’s voice grows closer, but Renly doesn’t move.

               “Renly step on the gas or gods help me I will do it.”

               Reluctantly, he starts the car and drives past Alayne.

               In the side view mirror, Margaery watches Alayne’s frantically shouting figure shrink until it disappears.

               She takes out her phone calls Ygritte. “What’s up?”

               “Ygritte, I need to stay at your apartment a few days,” Margaery says.

               “What happened, hon?” Ygritte asks.

               “I had a fight with Alayne. I can’t be around her now Ygritte. She’s not being honest with me and doesn’t trust me and she sent Jon…gods…” Margaery rambles. It’s be so much easier if Ygritte was here. She would know.

               “No problem Marge. I’m on my break now, so I won’t be back home for a few hours. I’ll get of that fancy wine you like and the amazing cheap beer I like, and you can tell Mama Ygritte all about it,” Ygritte offers.

               From the moment they met, Ygritte had away of knowing exactly how to get Margaery to relax. Long ago Margaery gave up trying to understand the woman’s knack and embraced the benefits. Like now.

               “Thanks, Ygritte. What are you going to tell Jon?”

               “That he can sleep in the bushes. If he’s involved, then he deserves a night in the streets. Take his key out of the left shoe in front of the door. Don’t freak out if Gendry is there though. He might be asleep on the couch,” Ygritte’s end starts to crackle. “Gotta get back to work hon. See you soon.”

               “Bye, Ygritte,” Margaery ends the call.

               Renly stretches his arm across Margaery’s shoulder. “Everyone has their rough patches.”

               “I feel like I hardly know her now,” Margaery admits.

               “That big of a lie?” Renly asks.

               Margaery nods. “I’m a fool. She’s been playing me all along, Renly.”

               “You don’t know if that’s true. Let yourself calm down and you’ll see it’s misunderstanding, I’m sure.” Rely parks his car in the apartment parking lot. “Do you want me to wait with you until Ygritte gets off?”

               “Yes, please,” Margaery says.

               He reaches across the median and hugs her. “ Okay.”

               Before going inside, Margaery bends down and takes the key out of Jon’s shoe. Other than the pile of dirty dishes in the sink, the main room of the apartment is relatively clean. Gendry must be more into cleanliness than she assumed. He wasn’t home, which saves an awkward explanation.

               Renly sits on the couch and texts on his phone.

               Leaning over his shoulder, Margaery gasps, “You told Loras?!”

               He looks up at her. “He called me while I was waiting. And then he asked if he could speak to you. What was I supposed to do?”

               “Tell him I’ll call him later.”

               “It’s too late for that now. He says he’s on his way here as soon as he gets off,” Renly lifts his phone higher. Above the text confirming that Loras is indeed coming is a line of several angry and mismatched emojis.

               “Fantastic,” Margaery groans. Her brother’s tendency to overreact couldn’t help. If anything, he’ll only stress her out more.

She walks around the couch and toward her old room- Jon’s room. Although the floor is clean, the dressers are covered in clothes and little knick-knacks. Figurines, belts, hair gel, combs, and CDs cover her once well-organized dresser tops.

Beside the bed, she drops her bag. She hardly recognizes the room as the one she used to live in. Instead of roses and lilies, it smells like cologne and oak. Strong cologne. The bedside stand hosts an alarm clock, several loose condoms, and a photo. Curious, Margaery sits on the edge of the bed and picks up the photo.

It’s grainy, but well kept. She recognizes Jon immediately as the boy on the far left in a hoodie and jeans, pouting likely because his hair is cut so short. Next to him smiles a boy with auburn hair, also cut short, holding a football. It takes Margaery a moment, but she finally figures out why he looks familiar. He looks exactly like Alayne’s brother. A few years older, a few more teeth, but definitely the same boy. Alayne had said that she and Jon were old friends. One truth confirmed in a thousand statements.

On the opposite side of the picture stands a pretty girl, red hair tumbling over her shoulders, maybe around five holding the hand of another girl in overalls, who may be two.  Margaery looks closer at the girl. That’s Alayne. Except when did Alayne have red hair? Hairs don’t turn from that shade of red to dark brown.

She must be wrong. Yet those eyes… She’s gazed into those eyes thousands of times. They can’t belong to anyone else. Not to mention the girl has Alayne’s cheekbones and lips. Her heart pounds with foreboding.

She flips over the picture. In scribbled handwriting it reads, “Jon- 9, Robb- 9, Sansa- 5, Arya- 2. Play date with Uncle Ned.”

Margaery’s hand flies to her mouth as if of its own accord. She wonders when she’ll wake up, because this can’t be reality. Then she thinks back to that day she showed Alayne the picture of Catelyn Stark, how she grew quiet. Why she would never talk about her family. The way she hesitated when talking about Robb. Her hand clenches around the photo. The crumpled picture falls to the floor, as Margaery remains sitting in shock.

Alayne Stone never existed.


	18. Break In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is super short compared to my other ones, but I believe that it is more impactful as its own chapter rather than as part of a longer one.

Twelve months of her life had revolved around Lannisters and Starks, mafias and crime. The entire time she had known Alayne. No, not Alayne. Alayne was never real. Yet, she didn’t know Sansa Stark either. Others take her, she wasn’t even sure what to call the woman she’d been sharing her bed with.

                Some investigative reporter she was. Margaery had been researching the Starks for months and one had been beside her all along. How many people that she spoke too knew the truth? Were they in league with the Starks?

                Why Alayne had looked so much like Catelyn kicks her memory. Of course, she never wanted Margaery to know. That was why she disapproved of Margaery’s journalism. 

                If she could have, the woman would have gone years without telling Margaery the truth. Which begs the question, why was she with Margaery to begin with? Love was a blatant lie. You don’t lie about your identity to the people you love. She knew from the beginning that Margaery was investigating the Lannisters. Perhaps she planned on using Margaery’s work for vengeance. Then again, she never wanted her near the Lannisters. Had it all been a ruse to play mind games and push Margaery in deeper?

                She thinks of Howland Reed, Eddard Stark's former right hand man. He had to have known. All the information he fed her could have been lies. Even if it was all truth, it would have been to misguide her and distract her from the true story.

                If she keeps this in her head, she’ll go mad. Margaery gets up and grabs the crumpled photo off the floor. She can feel tears welling up around her eyes and hates her supposed girlfriend more for tricking her into caring about her.

                “Renly!” Margaery calls out as she walks into the living room.

                Seeing Margaery’s state, Renly turns off the television and sits straighter. “What is it, Marge?”

                Margaery goes to Renly, stopping in front of him and holding out the crumpled photo. Renly smooths it out and observes it. He turns it over and reads the back. “Are you saying that Jon knew the Starks?”

                Margaery sits next to him and takes the photo, wiping away a stray tear before holding the edge straight. “Look at the girl. Really look at her.”

                He leans closer. “She does look familiar. Just like Catelyn.”

                “That’s Alayne,” Margaery says.

                Renly looks at her incredulously. “I know you’re pissed at her Marge, but-”

                Margaery shakes the photo in his face. “It’s her, Renly! She lied to me about who she was, that she was adopted by Baelish. It’s all crap. She was never in the foster system, Baelish never adopted anyone.”

                “So you think that she was Sansa Stark?”

                “It makes sense. They have the same face. Same eyes. I know those eyes, Renly. I’d know them anywhere.” Margaery takes a breath. “If the Lannisters thought she was dead, obviously she would take on a fake identity. Cover up a few of the more noticeable traits, and it’s like she was a different person. Gods Renly, she’s been playing me all along.”

                “I think you’re jumping to conclusions. Before you do something rash, let’s talk to Loras. He’ll be here in a few minutes. He just called and-” Knock, knock.

                “Is that him?” Margaery asks.

                Renly gets up. “It shouldn’t be. He was still awhile out.” He walks to the door and looks through the peephole.

                Margaery follows him. “It’s probably Gendry then.”

                “No, it’s Brienne. I thought she and Jon weren’t close.” Renly raises and eyebrow.

                “She helped move my things out of here. Maybe they’re closer than I thought,” Margaery shrugs.

                From the other side of the door a familiar voice hisses, “It’s not here.”

                “Look again,” says Brienne. “I don’t want to break the door if I don’t have to.”

                Margaery and Renly look at each other. Before Margaery can tell him not to, Renly unlocks the top bolt, then the bottom.

                He opens the door enough to stand in the doorway, but not enough for them to see Margaery.

                “Hello, ladies. May I help you?” he asks courteously.

                Brienne’s voice stiffens. “Yes, Renly. Is Margaery here? We desperately need to talk to her.”

                “No, sorry. Is there something I can pass along for you?”

                “If she’s not here, what are you doing here?” the other voice interrupts.

                “I’m a friend of Ygritte’s,” Renly says.

                “Renly if Margaery is here you need to tell us. Being here isn’t safe,” Brienne pleads.

                He glances to Margaery. The slight hesitation is enough for the other girl to duck under his arm and get into the apartment.

                “Hey!” Renly shouts.

                The girl whips her head around wildly. She spots Margaery behind the door. Margaery recognizes her as Mercy, the bartender.

                “She’s here!” yells Mercy.

                Brienne shoves the door open and nearly knocks over Renly. “You two have to leave.  Now. Come with us.”

                “Why in Seven hells would I go anywhere with you?” Margaery demands. If Alayne or Sansa or whoever insisted on talking, she could have the civility of coming here herself. “I know you two are here for Alayne, so why doesn’t she come herself?”

                “Ms. Tyrell, you’re not safe here. Cersei-” Brienne starts, then cuts herself off.

                Renly stares at the situation in shock, confused about what he should do.

                Footsteps stampede toward the door. Without warning both Mercy and Brienne draw guns. The door swings open and both triggers fire. From there time slows down. Loras barges through the front door, anger written all over his face, another taller man behind him. Gregor Clegane. Margaery screams at the pops. There’s not enough time for Loras to duck. Purely out of instinct, Renly dives in front of Loras. He collapses to the floor while the other man screams in agony.

                “Renly!” Margaery screams. She pushes a shocked and terrified Brienne out of her way. She couldn’t care less for the man covering his face, as crimson blood seeps through his fingers.

                  She joins Loras at Renly's side. Thick blood streams out of the hole in his neck. He gasps and gurgles but can’t speak.

                Loras brushes his fingers over the wound. Blood stains his fingertips. As hard as he may try, there’s no mending the wound. His lips quiver. Tears fall from his eyes, splashing off Renly’s cheeks. Margaery shakes his shoulder telling him they need to call 9-1-1. He doesn't seem to register their danger. Police, the hospital. Someone will come.

                Outside car doors slam. “Come out and play Snow!” yells a deep voice.

               “We have to leave,” Mercy barks.

                “Are you fucking nuts?!” Margaery jumps up. She feels as though she could rip the girl’s throat out. “I would rather face a thousand Lannister men than go anywhere with you or that bitch or fucking Sansa Stark!”

The girl’s neck is long, fragile. Enough pressure and Margaery’s nails could easily exact vengeance for her brother’s boyfriend. Her partner in reporting. Her friend.

Renly’s gurgles, his dying words forever lost, propel Margaery to jump Mercy. They fall to the floor and the gun scatters away. With leverage, Margaery scrambles for the gun and grabs it. She cocks the trigger and points. A heady sense of power overtakes her. 

                “I don’t want your mafia bullshit. You can run along and tell Sansa-” A sharp pain shoots forward from the back of Margaery’s skull. Her vision turns black and then she’s falling, falling…


	19. A Glorified Prisoner

A dull throbbing pain surges from the base of her skull to her forehead as though on a tether. A muffled and distorted voice speaks quietly. Why can’t she hear properly? Or see?

                She blinks her eyes a few times. Her vision returns quicker than her hearing. She raises herself onto her elbows. There’s a bed beneath. She doesn’t remember being near a bed. She remembers a scream, blood…

                “Margaery be still,” says the voice. Jon walks across the room, his voice gradually becomes recognizable.

                Memories of Brienne, Loras, and Renly flash through her mind. “Jon!” she croaks, voice hoarse and dry. “Jon we need to call the cops, we need to-”. She tries to sit up but nearly passes out as the room spins.

                Jon gently nudges her back. “Lay down, Margaery. The maester thinks you may have a concussion.”

                She groans presses her fingers to her temple. “Where are we? And where are Renly and Loras?”

                Jon looks away from her. Glimpses of gun shots, Renly laying on the ground, A picture of a curly haired boy and Sansa Stark. She scrambles away from Jon. “You’re with her. You’re one of them, part of the mob!”

                She leaps from the bed, but can’t fight through the pain. She falls to her hands and knees as her eyes struggle to focus on anyone point.

                Jon loops an arm over her shoulder and helps her up. Too confused to keep fighting, Margaery lets him guide her back to the bed. “Try not to move until the maester can look at you.”

                There’s no use in arguing with him. She’s in no shape to walk, let alone escape from Jon.

                “Where’s Loras? Where’s my brother?” She doesn’t want to ask about Renly. If she doesn’t ask, he can’t confirm what she knows.

                Rather than speak, Jon gets up. Margaery watches him walk to a television built into the wall. The reporter talks about the recent economic struggles facing Storm’s End.

                “Jon, where’s Loras? I want to see him!” her voice cracks. He has to be okay. Maybe he got away. He’s a trained police officer and skilled gunman. He escaped and has a search party looking for her. Wherever she is.

                “Breaking News” flashes on the screen. The anchor reads, “Good evening King’s Landing. We have breaking news from the press conference concerning the deadly apartment shooting on the outskirts of the Western Gate district today. Chief of police Jaime Lannister has confirmed that police are holding Loras Tyrell in connection to the murder of Renly Baratheon. He did not confirm whether Mr. Tyrell is a suspect in the case. Police are looking for these two women as well.” A grainy security video shows two figures—Brienne and Mercy—outside the apartment complex. “One is believed to be Brienne Tarth. Police are still working to identify the second woman. Both are considered at large and dangerous. They may also be involved in the disappearance of _King’s Courier_ reporter Margaery Tyrell, who was seen entering the apartment with Mr. Baratheon before the attack. If you have any information on these women or this case, please call police.”

                The screen changes to a throng of reporters outside the _Courier_ office. Jorah stands at a makeshift podium. He addresses Margaery’s disappearance and Renly’s death. He says it’s a tragedy, like losing family. He says how wonderful Renly was. Kind, friendly, confident. He pleads for Margaery’s safety.

                She imagines Loras alone and crying over his boyfriend. Locked in a cell for something he had no part in, no knowledge of. She imagines Olenna in a tizzy, calling the best lawyers in Westeros, hiring private investigators. She wonders if her father is raging with anger and flying to King’s Landing to speak to his boy, or if he’s consoling her mother back home. What is Garlan doing? With a child on the way, would he and Leonette come north? The stress couldn’t be good for the baby.

                Jorah walks off the podium, replaced by Stannis Baratheon. He takes out a crumpled sheet of paper. His daughter, baring the scars of her bout with skin cancer, stands by his side. He surveys the crowd with a stoic expression, but Margaery knows better.

 “Today, we have suffered an irreplaceable loss. Renly Baratheon,” he stops and then says, “my brother was a good man. He used to tell me that his greatest hope was to improve the lives of the smallest among us. I believe he accomplished that. His work helped lower crime rates and brought attention to the plights of the poor in this city. He was the kind of man who would give money without question. We can never thank him enough for giving himself to this city.” He takes another breath, shakier than the last, but never once looks anything less than in control. “As a city we must carry on his example. Be good to one another. Find ways to help each other. I never got along the best with Renly, but he was a man that people admired. I wish I told him that I admired him too.”

From the throng of reporters, one cries out, “What would you say to Loras Tyrell?”

Stannis’s fingers grasp the stand and pale. “Loras Tyrell can hang in his cell.”

Stannis storms off stage, camera flashes capturing each movement. Reporters shout questions after him as Shireen keeps pace at his heels.

The channel cuts back to the reporter. “We received video moments ago from outside the residence of Margaery Tyrell.”

Whomever the cameraman was must have been new on the job. The image shook as it zoomed in on the front door outside Alayne’s house. Alayne covered her face walked down the pathway leading to the front door with Petyr Baelish on one side, a short, long faced girl that Margaery doesn’t recognize on the other. She ducked her head down as bright lights flashed. The crowd of reporters here was smaller than at Stannis’s press conference, but just as desperate for a quote. Alayne gave them nothing. She slid into the driver’s seat of her car without a word and revved the engine to warn the reporters to back up.

                As the car drove off, the anchor said, “Local bar owner Alayne Stone is the girlfriend of Ms. Tyrell. Although Ms. Stone has not spoken publicly, she released a statement pleading for the safe return of her girlfriend and privacy in these tough times. According to Chief Lannister, Ms. Stone has been fully cooperative with the investigation.”

                “Turn it off,” Margaery utters. She doesn’t want to see her.

                “Margaery-” Jon says.

                “Turn it off!” she yells, cringing at they way her ears ring.

She stands up, but the room spins. She sits back down. He makes sure she’s okay, then turns off the tv.

Margaery lays down again.

“Don’t fall asleep. Your concussion still seems bad.”

They sit together in silence for what feels like hours.

She’s a captive. She’s not sure what that means. Maybe she’ll be ransomed to her family. Maybe she’ll be interrogated about what she knows.

She decides she won’t talk. She won’t tell what she knows about the Lannisters or what she knows about the Starks. Alayne doesn’t deserve to know any more than she told her.

While she’s fostering her resolve, she catches a glimpse of a deep red scratch on Jon’s cheek hiding amongst his beard hair. “Where’s Ygritte?”

Jon glances up, sorrow in his eyes. “She’s safe.”

It’s not enough of an answer. Margaery opens her mouth to demand to know where Ygritte is. A knock on the door interrupts her. Jon cracks the door open and whispers through it. She stands on shaky feet, and wobbles closer. A whisp of bright blonde hair gleams through the crack.

She stomps forward. “You bitch! You killed him! You fucking killed him!”

Jon blocks the door and gathers Margaery. She kicks and reaches for the Brienne. She stands stoic, mere inches beyond her reach.

“Margaery she didn’t-” he says as he carries her back.

“You killed Renly. He was a friend to you and you shot him!” she screams.

Brienne moves aside, out of Margaery’s frame of view and a man in a white coat steps forward. He’s close to her grandmother’s age. He has a kindly face and a hunched back from years of bending over patients. The door shuts softly behind him.

Jon manages to get a still kicking and fighting Margaery back to the bed.

“Get the fuck off me Jon! You can stick your chivalry and fake concerns up your arse,” she yells. Her brain pounds against her skull and the room spins faster.

“Ms. Tyrell. I need you to calm down,” soothes the maester. “You’ve had a hard knock on your head that could cause permanent damage if you do not calm down.”

She stops struggling with him and starts crying. She feels tired. There’s nothing familiar for her to cling to anymore. Renly is gone. Loras is far away. Ygritte is missing. Alayne was never there. She’s never felt more alone.

Through her slowing sobs, she can’t hear what the master tells Jon.

“But Maester-”

“Go on Jon. She won’t hurt me and I won’t hurt her. Sansa will be here shortly. I think it would be best for Ms. Tyrell if she not come in here until after I fully evaluate that head injury.”

He hesitates, but nods. Margaery watches him go, then she looks down. The maester sits on the bed. “You’ve been through a great ordeal Ms. Tyrell. Please allow me to check you out. Then you can rest in peace.”

She looks up. His voice and face seem kindly. She doesn’t fight when he gently grasps her chin. He shines a small flashlight in her eyes. The light burns too much. She snaps her head away and blinks rapidly. “Still fairly sensitive to light. Do you know your name?”

She doesn’t answer.

“I need your cooperation. You have no reason to trust me, but I will not hurt you. Aside from what you may believe, Ms. Stark wishes you no harm.”

A moment of silence follows. He promised to let her be if she cooperated, so she says, “Margaery Tyrell.”

Her mind begins drifting again. Back to Loras in his cell. Then to the paper.

“Ms. Tyrell?” the maester says.

The look on his face tells her he has been trying to get her attention for awhile. “Yes?”

“What day is it?”

“Thursday,” she says.

“Are you experiencing any headaches or nausea?”

“My head feels like a hammer is bashing into it,” she admits.

              “You have a concussion Ms. Tyrell. I’ll speak with Ms. Stark about getting you a CAT scan to make sure there’s nothing more serious,” the maester tells her.

                As he promised, he leaves her in peace. Jon comes back in with orders to wake Margaery every two hours if she falls asleep.

                “Am I allowed to go to the bathroom?” Margaery asks after a while.

                He escorts her down a dark hallway. He stands outside, giving her privacy to relieve herself. Her head doesn’t feel quite as bad anymore, but she still feels dizzy when she walks. She can’t follow a train of thought for more than a minute.

                Until she hears Alayne’s voice. Sansa’s voice. She turns off the water and dries her hands.

                She sounds furious. “I told you not to hurt her!”

                “Ms. Stark she was about to-” Brienne attempts to explain.

                “I don’t care. I don’t fucking care. Arya can handle herself. ‘Get her out and keep her safe.’ Lady could understand that order. Why couldn’t you?” 

                The response is too quiet for Margaery to hear. She doesn’t care that Mercy is Arya. Right now nothing could surprise her.

                She leaves the bathroom, praying she makes It back without seeing Alayne. Instead, she is walking down the hall, Brienne by her side.

                Margaery brushes by Jon and tries to get back to the room quickly.

                “Margaery!” Alayne calls out.

                Margaery tries to speed up, but the faster she goes, the more her head hurts. She catches herself on the wall and clenches her teeth. The stop gives Alayne enough time to reach her.

                “Sansa wait,” says Jon, “Maester Luwin doesn’t think it’s good for Margaery to see you right now. She’s still not feeling well.”

                She ignores him and walks around Margaery. She engulfs her in an embrace. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” she whispers.

                Margaery clenches her eyes shut. She wants it to stop. She struggles in her grip and pushes her away. This time she ignores the pain as she tries to pass her. It’s not easy. Alayne follows her down the hall, Jon on her heels and Brienne behind him.

                “Margaery, let me explain. Let me-” Alayne says.

                Had she not been afraid of another dizzy spell, Margaery would have doubled over in laughter. She had every opportunity to explain. What made now any better than when she had last seen her?

                “I don’t want an explanation. I don’t want anything from you,” She discreetly wipes away the tears forming along her eyes. She won’t let her see them.

                She tries to go back to the room again, where she can pretend this is a dream until she wakes up from her next one.

Alayne won’t let her go. She seizes Margaery’s wrist. Margaery’s icy glare is met by the most pitiful expression. “Please Margaery,” she begs.

Margaery feels no remorse for her. Hatred boils in her blood. “I asked you to explain to me earlier. You didn’t. Renly is dead because of you. Loras is imprisoned for your crimes. I don’t want an explanation anymore.” The tears come back. Damn them.

They well in Alayne’s eyes too. She was always sure to never let Margaery see her cry. Yesterday, Margaery would have held her, promised her that everything was okay, that she’d fix whatever the problem was. Now she yanks her arm away and walks off.

“I-” Margaery slams the door behind her.

Voices muffle through the door, then quiet as Jon comes in. She shoves her face into her pillow to muffle the sobs she can’t hold back anymore.

                The next time she wakes up, Gendry is there. He has a split lip and a bruised eye. He smiles apologetically, though it’s useless. What a fool. Everyone knew, everyone was part of the charade.

                They come in rotations. First Jon, then Gendry, then Bronn. “I work for the highest bidder. Ms. Stark has always known my price,” Bronn had said. He was the only one who spoke, more for his own benefit than for Margaery's.

                She asks where she is, but of course none of them tell her. Of all of them, Gendry is the one that nearly falters. He’s about to respond when a crackling sound buzzes in the silent room and he winces. The same way he winced at Joffrey’s party. After that, she stops asking questions.

                During his shifts, Jon turns on the TV. Sometimes Alayne is on, acting as though she cared for Margaery and was actively searching for her. Sometimes her grandmother and father are on, advocating Loras’s innocence and pleading for Margaery’s safety. Those are the times she felt her will crumble.

                In small print, the news network announces that Ygritte and Jon are also missing. Having determined that their disappearances aren’t newsworthy enough, the anchors focus solely on Margaery, Loras and Renly.

                Her headaches become less painful and less frequent. The dizziness goes away as well. The maester checks on her and says that her concussion is healing well. Alayne hasn’t come back since their incident in the hall.

                She eats little. Her meals consist of food she loves: Dornish chicken, roasted pork, summer squash, peaches, lemons, pies. Food worthy of royalty, not a prisoner. She refuses to be seduced by finery.

                When the maester visits her again he tells her she has to eat. Her concussion requires her to have more energy than usual to heal and not eating only heightens the risks.

                Aside from the bread and the peach, she doesn’t eat. Bronn is regaling some tale of a theft gone wrong that evening when the door opens.

                Alayne walks in, a small plate of food in one hand, Margaery’s leather jacket in the other. Bronn stands straight, almost like a military captain.

                “Ms. Stark,” he says.

                “Stand outside Bronn,” she orders him.

                Without question, he quietly shuts the door behind him. Wrapped beneath a blanket, Margaery doesn’t budge. Alayne cautiously approaches and kneels to the floor beside her bed. She sets down the plate next to her. She lifts her hand as though to stroke Margaery’s hair.

                “Don’t touch me,” Margaery warns.

                She puts her hand back down. “The KLBI ran some DNA tests on your jacket. When they realized it had no evidence, I convinced them to let me hold on to it. It’s not in good shape anymore.”

                She lays the jacket by Margaery’s feet. Margaery stays silent.

“Your parents and grandmother arrived today. I’m going to meet with them and the lawyers in a couple hours. Olenna and I are splitting the cost for the best law firm in Westeros to handle the case,” she pauses then adds, “She wants me to focus more on finding you and let her worry about Loras.”

                Still without a response, Alayne grows restless.

                “Margaery you need to eat. Starving yourself won’t help anyone.”

                “Then don’t feed me like I’m an honored guest. I’m your prisoner for ransom or torture or whatever you have planned. Stop pretending I’m anything else."

                “You’re not a prisoner ba- Margaery. I know you don’t understand, but this is to keep you safe from Cersei,” Alayne says.

                “I don’t need protection from Cersei. I need protection from you.”

                “Those men that came for you were Cersei’s men. They would have killed you had it not been for Brienne and Mercy,” she insists.

                “Arya,” Margaery corrects her. She pushes herself up. “If you’re going to pretend to give a shit, let’s have a little honesty. That woman with Brienne was your sister.”

                Sansa nods, eyes shut tight. “Yes. She’s Arya.”

                “Your help killed Renly,” Margaery says.

                “They saved your life. Those bastards would have-” Sansa argues.

                She cuts her off. “They were after Jon! Not me! I had it under control until you butted in. I’m not as stupid as you or your family!”

                Sansa recoils as though Margaery had just slapped her. She stares at the floor for a moment before getting up and walking out. Margaery releases a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding.

                Bronn returns, eerily quiet. He doesn’t speak for the rest of his shift.

                Eventually, Margaery eats the food Sansa left. She tells herself it’s because she has no choice, not because of the absurd guilt weighing on her chest. She has nothing to feel sorry for. She only spoke the truth.

                The next day, there’s a knock at her door. She’s sure it’s Alayne, coming back to tell her off. Instead, Ygritte tumbles through the door, followed by the girl who had been walking through the throng of reporters that first night with Alayne. She wears a fading bruise on her cheek.

                “Shift’s over Gendry. I’m taking over,” the girl commands. Margaery remembers the voice. Arya had been more disguised than Margaery knew. Everyone’s mask seems to be falling.

                “I’ll be outside Arry. That one can be a handful,” Gendry points at Ygritte as he walks out.

                “Marge, what the hell is going on?!” demands Ygritte.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it may be confusing to go back and forth between calling Alayne "Sansa" and "Alayne", but the purpose is to show how unsure of everything Margaery is. She doesn't know which to call her anymore, hence in her head she calls her both.


	20. Call Your Bluff

 

                “They snuck up on me, so I did what any normal woman would do: I chucked my chocolate bar at one and kicked the other one in the balls. Then I kneed him in the face, but the other caught me from behind. Coward that he was, he pinned me against the wall while the other cuffed my hands and taped my mouth. Tossed me in the back and sped off. The passenger took off his mask and it was fucking Jon! Got Gendry pretty good though,” Ygritte had told her.

                She said that they told her it was for her protection. The Lannisters would be after her because of her association with Jon. “Fuck him. I have a life too you know! He can’t just uproot me from it.”

                Starting that day Margaery and Ygritte receive more freedoms. They are allowed to walk the hallways underguard. Wherever they are looks like a home of some sort. The rooms have nice furniture and televisions. The only hint that it isn’t a home is the large room that Margaery had peered into one day. It has a large desk, papers everywhere, and a mounted sword in the corner. It almost looks like a typical office.  

Margaery never forgets she is a prisoner and this is her pretty little cage.

She refuses to let the food and amenities fool her. On her excursions out of her makeshift cell, she studies the hallways. She notices they wouldn’t lead her down certain halls. 

Gendry walks her to Ygritte’s room. As they pass the office, Margaery overhears Sansa talking on the phone. “I’m going to leave in the morning…Yes, Mrs. Tyrell I’ll let you know immediately if I learn something…I hope so too…Thank you, Mrs. Tyrell…buh-bye.”

Gendry doesn’t notice the conversation so Margaery pretends not to. It didn’t sounds as though Alayne’s trip would be short.

                This was an opening. Alayne’s associates would be distracted preparing for her trip. Though the chance was slim, they could be caught off guard by an escape attempt.

                Gendry opens the door to let Margaery in. Ygritte sits on the floor playing solitaire as a man Margaery hasn’t yet met flips through a magazine. He glances at Margaery then returns his attention to the magazine.

                Ygritte smiles up at her. “Poker?”

                “Sure. You deal,” Margaery says.

                Ygritte gathers the cards and shuffles. “I used to kick ass at the big tournaments until Mayor Stannis banned gambling at bars.”

                Margaery nodded, but her attention was on the guard. “You think he’s cute?” she whispers.

                “Huh?” Ygritte furrows her eyebrows.

                Margaery watches for the man’s reaction. He continues flipping the pages as though he hadn’t heard anything. “Yeah would you do him?”

                “What are you talking about?” Ygritte flips the cards.

                “His cock is probably too big for my liking.”

                He keeps flipping the pages, unaware of Margaery and Ygritte’s conversation.

                “I think we can get out of here,” she whispers.

                Ygritte eyes the guard and lowers her voice. “I’ve been thinking the same thing. We just need some time.”

                “We don’t have time. I overheard Alayne speaking on the phone. She said she’s leaving.”

                “Leaving where?” Ygritte deals the cards.

                “I don’t know. We might not have an opportunity like this, especially if they take us north,” Margaery looks at her hand. An Ace, a jack and a ten.

                The guard glances at them, then flips to the next page of his magazine.

                “I have family North of the Wall. If we make it to them, we’re free,” Ygritte held up her hand. “I raise 2 dragons.”

                “I call and raise 5 dragons,” Margaery says.

                “I call and raise 8 dragons,” Ygritte says, then whispers.

                “North is too risky. There’s too many Stark supporters. We have to move South. To Dorne.” Margaery looks over her cards. “Check.”

                Ygritte looks over her cards. “Check.”

                “How are we supposed to do this?” Ygritte asks.

                “Improvise when they change the guards. Then follow the halls that they keep us from,” Margaery suggests.

                “So pray that we get lucky?” Ygritte simplifies.

                Margaery nods and draws a card. “What’s the worst they’ll do to us?”

                Ygritte snorts too loudly. The guard looks over. Ygritte draws another card, “I raise 15 dragons.”

                He goes back to his magazine, oblivious to their ruse once more.

                “Easy for you to say,” Ygritte responds, “You’ve been fucking the Boss.”

                Margaery flinches at the reminder.

“Sorry,” Ygritte apologizes.

She’s been struggling to separate the Alayne she knew from Sansa Stark. She tried convincing herself that she hadn’t felt what she felt. She couldn’t deny that she loved Alayne. That she still was in love with Alayne. Alayne was gone though. Replaced by this mafia boss murderess, she wasn’t coming back. Margaery could tell herself that she hated Sansa more easily than she could deny her feelings for Alayne.

“I call,” Margaery says. She draws another card. Ygritte does the same. “Fold?”

“Nope,” Ygritte smiles. “Check.”

“Check.”

Ygritte reveals her hand. “Full house.”

Margaery pouts. “Damn.” Ygritte opens her mouth to rub the loss in Margaery’s face, “That would be such a great hand if I didn’t have a royal flush.”

************************************************

The plan is simple enough. Ygritte has a size advantage on Arya and can catch her offguard. If she can knock her as hard as Brienne whacked Margaery, they should be fine. If’s are never as precise as Margaery would like them to be.

In comparison, her task is simpler. Her grandmother would easily pay Bronn double whatever the mafia is paying him. She just needs to convince him of that.

Jon clicks off the television. Margaery only watches when there’s news about her brother. She doesn’t trust what he tells her. She glances at the clock. His shift is ending.

There’s a knock on the door. The copper knob twists and the door opens. Sansa, wearing a thin green sweater, Margaery’s sweater, and jeans walks in.  Jon leaves. On his way out, Margaery catches a hint of an encouraging smile on his lips. It irritates her. She feels a scowl form of its own volition. She neutralizes her expression before Alayne turns back to her. Without Bronn her plan is useless.

Alayne looks as uncomfortable as the last time she visited. She looks small and vulnerable, unsure of whether she should sit or remain standing.

Margaery’s not inclined to help her. She wants her to hurt the same way she’s hurting. She wants to apologize for what she said last time. She wants to twist Sansa’s heart and break it like she did with her own. She wants to throw herself into Alayne’s arms and be held close.

Above all she wants the truth. Learning the truth will cement her anger. Then she can forget her confusing feelings. There won’t be this inner turmoil. She can move past these lies and allow her self to loathe without the questions gnawing at the back of her head. Was this your plan from that start? Was any of our relationship real? Why me?

She stares at Sansa. Sansa sits in the chair that Jon, Gendry and Bronn usually occupy on their shifts. Her fingers play with the hem of her sleeve.

“I’m sorry,” Alayne says, barely louder than a whisper.

Nothing.

“I drove to Renly and Loras’s house after you. I thought you’d gone there. You weren’t. Then Bronn called. He said Cersei had ordered some hit men to take out Jon with whatever means necessary. She contrived to get Gregor Clegane here for the job. I told Bronn to call Jon. He was working with some associates in Flea Bottom.” She sounds cold and detached until she turns to Margaery. “Then I remembered you. I didn’t know how much time I had to get to you. I called Arya and told her to get you away from the apartment now and that if you were hurt…

“Brienne said Renly jumped in front of the bullet.”

“To save Loras,” Margaery snaps.

 She didn’t mean to say anything. Alayne looks at her with what Margaery calls pity. “The bullet’s trajectory would have hit Clegane-”

“Loras was in front of him,” Margaery repeats.

“It was an accident,” Alayne pleads with her to understand. She gets up and walks toward the bed. The light gleams off of a round metal object in her back pocket. There’s two rings, like handcuffs. 

A new plan pieces together in Margaery’s head. For it to work, she couldn’t say what she believed: Sansa was the reason he died. He’d still be here if she had been truthful or left her alone that night at the bar.

Margaery watches her sit on the bed next to her. The rings push up in her back pocket. “What do you want from me?”

Alayne clasps her hands in her lap. “To understand. If I could bring him back I would Margaery. I’d bring back everyone the Lannisters took from me. I can’t. That doesn’t mean I won’t destroy them.”

                Margaery scoots closer. “Destroy them? Did you have anything to do with Joffrey?”

                Margaery knows she did. The way she acted around him makes sense now. Sympathy bubbles in her and she reviles the feeling. She shouldn’t feel bad for a murderer.

                “It was to protect you,” Alayne defends. Margaery bites back the urge to scream that she doesn’t need protection. “He made my life hell. He deserved to die.”

                Margaery didn’t need to know the details of how. If she did, she didn’t think she could go through with what she was going to do. “If I hadn’t been around him, would you have had him killed?”

                Alayne hesitates then nods. “He was a monster. You don’t know what he’s done, what he’s capable of. The world is a better place without him.”

                “If you had let him be, he’d have landed behind bars with his mother,” Margaery murmurs.

Alayne narrows her eyes. Her jaw tightens. “Bronn told me of his plans. He wanted to kidnap you. He and Cersei argued over whether to trust you with your story. He said he could manipulate you like he had me. And that if you wouldn’t cooperate he’d strangle you until you did. I couldn’t let him take another person I loved.”

That’s her cue. Margaery tilts her head and leans in slowly. Eyes half closed, she sees Alayne’s eyes widen in surprise. She starts with a soft kiss, barely pressing her lips against Alayne’s. She inches back and closes her eyes before pressing her lips against Alayne’s once more. This time Alayne presses back.

It’s tempting to give into the familiarity. She wants to forget everything and go back to a time when she could pretend that Alayne had loved her. Margaery places her hand against Alayne’s lower back.

Alayne kisses her harder, more desperate, but still slow. Whatever her intentions are to use Margaery now, they won’t matter if Margaery gets what she needs first.

Margaery smooths her hand down Alayne’s back, up and down. She opens her eyes. Alayne’s eyes are shut tight, almost painfully so. Her hand brushes against the tip of the cuffs. Margaery hooks her pinky around the end.

She just needs to get one cuff on Alayne and the other on the bed. The cuffs jingle in her hand. Margaery jerks the cuffs back to herself. Not fast enough. Alayne pins her wrist to the bed and snatches the cuffs back.

She steels her eyes. Sansa looks at her, hurt filling her blue eyes. Margaery expects her to call in whomever is on duty.

Sansa puts the handcuffs down beside her. “Margaery, I love you. And I know you’re mad and hurt. You love me too.”

Margaery shakes her head. “Don’t pretend that you ever felt anything for me.” She blinks back the angry tears threatening to stream down her face.

“I do love you. Please believe me,” Alayne begs. Sansa begs. She doesn’t know whom.

The first tear falls. Then another. Sansa reaches forward to wipe it away. Margaery flinches back from her. “How can I believe anything you say? You lied to me for a year. Were you ever going to tell me?”

Alayne looks down.

“That first night at the bar. Why did you come to me? Why couldn’t you let me be?” Though it’s pointless to hide her tears now, she tries anyway. Eventually an associate will come in and she doesn’t want to give them the satisfaction of seeing her so weak.

Sansa opens her mouth, shuts it, and opens it again. “I wanted someone to help me forget who I was, just for a night. I wanted to be someone else. I didn’t mean for us to fall in love.”

Margaery laughs, high and sharp like a bark. “What we have isn’t love. You don’t lie about who you are to the people you love. You don’t kidnap them. Do you even know what love is?”

Something in Alayne snaps. “I know a hell of a lot more than you! You act like you know so much and then push people away once they get too close. I don’t fucking run away from my feelings like you do!”

Margaery felt the jab, but took it in stride. “You mean your blood lust and vengeance? Those feelings? No it’s much better to be a fucking murderer and drug pusher isn’t it! Queenpin Sansa Stark: the casualties don’t matter as long as she gets her way.”

Sansa gets up. “If I had told you I was Sansa Stark from the beginning, what would you have done?” she yells.

Margaery stands up and meets her eyes. “I would have ran as far from you as I could. I wish you had chosen a different plaything that night. Renly would be here. Loras would be safe. I never would have fallen in love with someone who doesn’t exist, because I don’t know you.”

Admitting the truth felt cathartic. Deep down, Margaery knew she couldn’t deny her love. But the woman she loved disappeared as soon as she learned her girlfriend was not what she wanted the world to know her as.

Alayne walks around Margaery and picks up the cuffs. She turns them over in her hand. “Go.”

Margaery blinks. “What?”

Alayne doesn’t look at her. “Go. Take your first two left hallways then a right, head straight for two turns then left. Just go.”

The insane urge to comfort her washes over Margaery again. She doesn’t understand why she keeps feeling this way.

Alayne is letting her go. Part of her feels like it must be a trap. It’s a worth a shot. Margaery turns and leaves. The halls are bustling this way and that. People carrying boxes and equipment brush past each other. None of them pay notice to Margaery as she slinks down the halls.

She wonders if Ygritte made it out.

She rounds a corner at the same time as Jon and Brienne jog around the other one. To escape recognition, she ducks back behind the corner, praying they won’t notice her. They’re speaking to each other in soft voices.

“-she will go?” Brienne finishes her question.

“I have no idea, but I guaran-” Jon doesn’t finish before he’s beyond her hearing range.

                Margaery makes it out without running into anyone else. Outside, the sun is beginning to dip behind high-rise, rundown buildings. She looks at the building behind her. It’s as rundown as the rest of the buildings despite how nice and modern the inside looks. An easy way to blend in without alerting the Lannisters of their presence.

 She goes left. Not knowing where they were, she and Ygritte hadn’t made plans on where to meet. Getting away from the mafia is first priority. She turns the corner and runs down the street for a couple blocks.

She slows to a stop, panting. A car rolls up next to her and honks. The black vehicle with tinted windows looks far too nice to belong to this part of town, wherever she is. Margaery tenses up, thinking back on her self-defense training. Because the only person with a car that nice around here would have to be part of the Starks.

The window rolls down. A red head pops out and grins. Ygritte tilts the sun glasses she somehow came across. “You gonna get in?”

Margaery runs around the car and gets in. She buckles up as Ygritte speeds off. “How did you find the keys.”

Ygritte tilts her head to the steering wheel. There’s no keys. “Told you. I can hot wire almost anything.”

“And the sunglasses?”

Ygritte smiles wide. “Found them in the car. They suit me don’t they?”

“Not as well as your ones back home,” Margaery says.

Ygritte stops at the red light. “How’d you get out? I saw Bronn in the hall after I knocked out Arya.”

Margaery looks straight ahead. She doesn’t want to think about the Starks or Alayne anymore. There are more important things for her to take care of. Loras. Her articles. “It doesn’t matter. I got out and I’m not going back.”

Ygritte nods. She’s never been one to push too hard, especially since Margaery hasn’t once asked her about Jon beyond her initial questions that Ygritte didn’t want to answer. They both still feel raw. Margaery is grateful for that.

Margaery turns on the radio. She flips it from the news station to a rock station.

Ygritte rolls her window back up. “Get comfortable Tyrell. It’s a long drive to Dorne.”


	21. Another Perspective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mixing it up a little to get some idea of how Sansa is feeling.

Jon makes it to the room a half-step quicker than Brienne. Bypassing the courtesy of knocking, Jon swings the door open.

“Sansa, Ygritte knocked-” he stops mid-sentence.

Sansa sits on the bed twirling a pair of handcuffs around her finger. He recognizes Margaery’s favorite jacket draped across her lap. More disconcerting, though, is Margaery’s absence. And that Sansa seems unconcerned about why they had burst into the room.

“Sansa, where’s Margaery?” he asks. He’s not sure whether his heart is pounding from the sprint down the hall or the dread of hearing her answer.

Sansa stood up. She looked him directly in the eye. “Gone.”

“Gone where?” asked Brienne.

She shoves past Jon and Brienne down the hall. Jon stands in the doorway collecting his thoughts, vaguely aware that Brienne had followed Sansa down the hall.

Gone. He couldn’t say he was shocked at Ygritte’s escape attempt, but he had thought that having Margaery here would be an incentive for her to come back if something like this had happened.

There was nothing to keep her close anymore.

He can still catch them. They’re on foot, they couldn’t have gotten far.

Jon runs back to the conference room and grabs his keys. He sprints up the stairs and into the above ground garage.

It’s chaos. Weapons litter the ground. A gun rack is overturned on the ground. Arya’s bicycle is smashed on the ground.

                The associates scramble to clean up the mess. He grabs one of them by the collar. “What happened?”

                The man shoves Jon’s hand off him. “Some crazy bitch stole a car. Almost ran over Hester.”

                Jon curses under his breath. “Where’s the Harley?” He only uses the bike in high speed situations. He can’t afford to let them get too far.

                Karstark’s annoying clacking bootsteps march over. “Ms. Stark has ordered no one leaves the vicinity. She wants you downstairs Snow. Now.”

                Jon glares at him. Karstark wears a smug grin, clearly unaware of the reality of their situation. Beyond that he’s always held a grudge against Jon for his privileges as Sansa’s most trusted advisor. He would gloat over any opportunity to make Jon look bad.

                He still has half a mind to blow off Karstark and chase Ygritte. He decides against it. His place is with the mafia.

                He storms back down the stairs. He rounds the corner and finds the lobby in no better shape than the garage. Baelish appears to be either scolding or pleading with Sansa across the room. Closer to him, Arya is pressing a bag of ice to the back of her head. She grits her teeth in anger. She wouldn’t allow herself to show pain that easily. Brienne sits in the chair next to her, trying to calm her down.

                Jon walks past one of Baelish’s assistance who speeds past without an apology. Sansa’s arms are folded over her chest. She stares at the ceiling above her, more interested in the nonexistent patterns than in Petyr’s words.

                “…operation is in danger. They could destroy everything we’ve worked for. All it takes is for your bitter ex and her nut job friend to come across one of the Spider’s whisperers and the Lannisters will demolish this compound and eradicate the last of the Starks. A legacy in flames Sansa.”

                Jon locks his jaw at the insult to Ygritte. 

                Sansa doesn’t face such restraints. “She’s not my ex. If you want to remain in my good graces Petyr, you’ll shut the hell up now.” Her eyes flicker to Jon. “You wanted me to lead so I led.”

                Petyr turns and looks at Jon. “This isn’t leading this is madness. Tell her this is madness.”

Arya walks over too. “What was all this for? You brought her here to throw her back?”

“You _let_ Margaery go?” Jon asks, finally realizing what exactly happened.

Arya presses on. “All it took was a little tear and pout to break Stoneheart’s spirit.”

Sansa steps closer to Arya. Arya doesn’t back down. She’s never backed down.

“You’ve put us all in danger just so your little play thing can fall into whatever trap Cersei Lannister has planned for her. Gods you’re such a fucking idiot Sansa!” Arya screams.

Brienne throws herself between the girls to act as a barricade as they inch closer. “Enough ladies. This won’t-”

“She’ll scream everything she knows about us as soon as Cersei hands her to the Mountain. You know it! You think with your cu-” Sansa manages to get under Brienne’s arm and slap Arya before she can finish her sentence.

Arya stares in shock and seething anger as Sansa yells, “You had the option to take over the Mafia. I didn’t want this! You told me to do it! You don’t have the right to question my decisions when you ran off!”

Brienne holds Arya back, but that doesn’t stop Sansa from making it dangerously easy for Arya to try to grab her. “Because I thought you would do the right thing. They killed mom and dad! You said you wanted revenge. We’re so damn close and you’re throwing that away for a girl who doesn’t give a shit about us! She’d sell us out in a heartbeat for a damn story! Is that what you think of mom and dad?!”

                Jon thinks he’s about to have to grab Sansa by the waist to keep her from lunging at Arya. Instead, she regains some semblance of composure. She leaves without a word.

                Brienne lets go of Arya and starts to chase after Sansa. Jon stops her. “Stay with Arya. Bronn is supposed to call any minute and I need someone here who’s not ready to kill another person yet.”

                Brienne nods. Before the accident involving Renly, Brienne might have defied him in favor of following Sansa. Sansa was her duty, not the mafia. But something fundamental changed within her that day.

                Jon takes off down the hall. He checks her office first. It’s empty. He goes to the room they had kept Margaery in. She’s lying on the bed back toward the door, just as he’d found Margaery so many times the last few days.

                He sighs and walks in. He hadn’t thought of how similar the two women could be. Had this been Ygritte he’d either be trying to protect his face or laying on his back by now. Probably the former. Gods he misses her. He hasn’t seen her since they brought her in and he just wants to explain what’s going on. She might forgive him then.

                “You were right,” Sansa murmurs.

                Jon walks closer and looks over her side. She’s clutching Margaery’s jacket against her while staring at the wall. “I was right?”

                “That night at the bar. I should have ignored her. She’d be happy and safe,” Sansa hugs the jacket tighter. “I thought I could be happy too. Why can’t I be happy?”

                He doesn’t know what to say.

                “I’m still a stupid girl,” she adds.

                Jon sits on the end of the bed by her feet. They let the silence breathe between them. Finally he takes a deep breath and says, “Ygritte tried to break my nose when we got her out of the van. Headbutted me soon as she got the chance.”

                “I was there Jon. I know,” Sansa says.

                “I’m trying to say that if we’re faulting ourselves for loving someone, then I’m just as deserving of blame. I could have just as easily turned Ygritte away that night. I didn’t,” Jon says. He’s never regretted it. Knowing what would come of it all, he would still do it again. “We were protecting them. It was the right thing, even if they don’t know it.”

                “She knew you. Margaery said she didn’t know me” Sansa mutters into the mattress.

                Jon shakes his head. “She does know you. She loves you. That’s why she’s reacting this way.” He’s not sure if he’s talking to Sansa or himself.

                Sansa sits up, still holding the jacket against her. She wipes forearm against her eyes to clear tears before they fall onto the leather. “She hates me Jon. I can’t fix this! Just like I can’t fix what happened to mum and dad! And I can’t bring back Rickon and Bran and Robb! I can’t…I can’t-”

                Jon wraps his arms around Sansa. She sobs into his shoulder. He rubs her back as she cries.

                “I love her. W-Why couldn’t I have stayed away?”

                He can’t help but think of Ygritte. It never felt like a choice after she first flirted with him. Her spontaneity, her feistiness, or no bull shit attitude. Once he saw those things there was nothing that he could have done to stay away.

                “She just needs time. She loves you too Sansa, she just needs time,” he soothes.

                Sansa sniffles and lifts her head off his shoulder. “No amount of time would have helped if she’d been forced to stay here.”

                She stands up and wipes her eyes again, this time smudging a little eyeliner. “I need to go. Olenna Tyrell expects to see me off to go North.”

                Jon gets up as well. “Would they go North?”

                “Not in Seven Hells. Cersei is still going though, and I am finishing this now,” Sansa’s stern expression returns.

He’s not sure going through with the plan is still in their best interest now. Since convincing the Hound to sellout his brother to Margaery’s paper, though, Jon has learned not to question Sansa. Even if her decisions don’t always make sense.

“Let me grab a bag and I can be ready to leave in twenty minutes,” he says.

Sansa cocks a brow. “You’re staying..”

“There’s no one here for me to watch over any more. I’m better use in the field,” he argues. He’s been stuck in this compound for a week and is itching to get out.

“Her eyes are everywhere. If anyone recognizes you, my cover is blown as well. Stay here. I’ve left a plan to get Loras Tyrell out of prison. Work out the kinks with Gendry,” she orders.

That irks him. Loyalty and obedience could only go so far. “So I can risk my life to get a man out of jail, where he’s perfectly safe, but not to take out the woman who orchestrated the death of my family.”

“My family,” Sansa says. “She killed my family. Once I kill Cersei, there will be nothing to keep Jaime Lannister from doing something stupid. So yes, I am commanding you to get Loras out.”

“Then what? Protect him? That worked so well last time didn’t it?” Jon argues. He says it harsher than he means it, but his frustration is boiling over.

Before Sansa can snap back and put him in his place, Brienne knocks on the door. “Bronn called.”

“Has Cersei left yet?” Sansa asks.

“Not North. Bronn said she changed plans. They’re heading to Highgarden.”

Sansa gulps and shuts her eyes. “Then so are we.”

“Pardon Ms. Stark?” Brienne says.

“Get Arya, Karstark, Gendry, Selwyne, and Adelyne. I want a meeting in my office in five minutes” Sansa starts down the hall.

Jon runs to catch up to her. “Is that where Margaery and Ygritte are going?”

“I don’t know. Possibly,” Sansa says.

“Let me go with you,” Jon pleads.

“You’re staying here. Get Loras out of jail. Run the gambling ring. Keep an eye on our businesses,” she lists off his duties like Mrs. Stark would have given chores to his cousins.

When they get there, Gendry and Selwyne are already waiting. Sansa goes around her desk and grabs her laptop. She’s hunched when the rest come in. Arya quirks an eyebrow at Jon to ask what this is about.

“Cersei isn’t going to Winterfell anymore. We’re changing plans. Adelyne pack the compact guns. The big ones won’t sneak under the radar down South. Karstark you’re coming. Go with Selwyne and get a fake ID made.” Karstark pumps his fist. Both Selwyne and Sansa glare at him. Noticing the attention, his smile sobers. Sansa dismisses them. “Arya pack your winter things. I want you and Gendry going North.”

“You just said we’re changing plans,” Arya snarks.

“We are. Before you were not going to Winterfell, now you are,” Sansa barks.

“Is this about your stupid girlfriend again?” Arya demands.

“It’s about me killing the bitch that killed mum and dad! Are you going to do this or do I need to find someone who will?” Sansa has reached her end with Arya.

A smile hints at Arya’s lips. She tries to hide with her unconcerned tone. “Yeah, yeah. So I’m going to be you?”

“Yes,” Sansa says. “Gendry is going with you.” She looks at him. “Manderly is still going with you. I’ll have Roose meet you at the Fort. Tell Manderly to fortify the armor on the car. No accidents.”

Gendry scrambles off, but Arya stays.

“Where are you going?” Arya asks.

“Wherever Cersei is going,” Sansa says. Jon watches her cheek flinch.

She’s lying. Arya knows it too. Arya glances at Jon, then back at Brienne. “It will be safer if Brienne comes with me.”

“Excuse me?” Brienne says shocked. “My place is with Ms. Stark.”

“She’s right,” Jon interjects. “Brienne’s face has been plastered all over the news. If anyone sees her this mission will be botched. She can stay out of sight more in the North. Our allies will protect her.”

“Ms. Stark,” Brienne scoffs.

“Take me with you,” Jon pleads again. He looks to Arya for help. “The people don’t know me as well. I’m not a wanted fugitive.”

“Cersei wants you dead Jon. She knows your face and wouldn’t hesitate to kill you, even in public,” Sansa rebuts.

“Jaqen can fix him up. There’s not enough time for a mask, but some make-up, a few alterations and no one will recognize Jon,” Arya leans back against the wall.

“If he can do that for him, he can do it for me as well, Ms. Stark,” Brienne came to stand next to Jon. “My place is by your side. It always has been until the day I die.”

“Please Sansa. I need to go,” he clasps his hands together like a beggar. Loyalty should have its rewards. She has to understand why he needs to go. They’re fighting for the same thing.

He thinks about threatening to go anyway, but quickly shuts down that thought. It would earn him a ticket to the Fort.

Sansa huffs. “I don’t want to recognize him when Jaqen’s finished. Brienne inform Petyr that I need to speak with him when I return. You’ll be accompanying Arya north.”

“Where are you off to now?” Arya asks.

“A goodbye has suddenly turned into a confessional,” Sansa says as she walks out of his office.

As Arya walks down the hall with Jon, she tugs a curl at the back of his head. “I’m going to miss your hair. It was the one thing that gave you personality.”

Jon covers his head. “He’s not touching my head. I didn’t agree to that.”

“You agreed to anything the moment you begged Sansa to see your girlfriend,” Arya says.

“It’s not about Ygritte or Margaery. I want to protect her when we’re in unfamiliar territory,” Jon cards his hand through his hair, cherishing his curls.

“All of this is about them. Stupid as it is, I can accept it if the Lannisters are collateral damage,” Arya says. “And I can’t wait to get my hands on whatever morons she has tracking Alayne north.”

*********

The last time he saw his own face clean shaven was the night of his junior prom. Uncle Ned had insisted on it to save him from the wrath of his Aunt Catelyn. She wanted everyone in Robb’s prom picture looking proper, which meant clean shaven and wearing tuxes. No one in their late 20’s should look this young, he thought.

The buzzcut helped age him a bit and the fake scar on his cheek at least made him look intimidating. His head feels like one of those furry plant pots they sell on TV. Ygritte had one of those. They used to make fun of it and see what could get stuck in the green bristles.

The green contacts won’t go in until it’s daylight. By then they’ll be out of King’s Landing.

Sansa starts the car. Her blonde wig and the molded double chin that Jaqen fitted her with are her most prominent alterations. There’s a mole on her forehead and her eyebrows have been lightened to better match the wig.

She tosses her spar phone in Jon’s lap. “Bronn will call with an update on where they are. Whatever he tells you, tell me. I’ll know what he means.”

“Shouldn’t we at least check Highgarden. Margaery’s grandmother could know they’re there.”

Sansa tightens her grip on the wheel. “Stop questioning my every move. Olenna is right, Margaery wouldn’t endanger her family by going home. Margaery has no phone, no way of contacting anyone so until that happens the Tyrells and I are on the same page.”

“And when that happens?” Jon asks. With Ygritte the question is when not if.

Sansa turns the corner. Karstark and his men follow at a distance.

“I don’t know.” Sansa says.

Lady’s head pops between them. Her breath smells of whatever medication Sansa had given her to stay calm during the car ride. Sansa strokes her ear and tells her to sit. Lady obeys and jumps back on to the back seat.

“I’m sorry, Jon,” her eyes stay on the road.

“For what?” he asks.

“I shouldn’t have made you beg to come. You have as much at stake as I do. Your love for Ygritte is real too.”

Jon leans the chair back. He thinks of Ygritte. Even though she’d never admit it, she’s scared. The look in her eyes the last time he saw her was achingly familiar to the one he saw in Sansa and Arya the night he lost everything.

 She doesn’t understand. She and Margaery had been better off not knowing. He could make her see this was for her safety. He just has to find her again.


	22. Brief Respite

Without Ygritte, Margaerys doubts she could have made it a day. Neither of them have any money, any clothes or any food. Since her face has been all over the news, she couldn’t have tried to barter with anyone anyway. Ygritte is left knicking food from unwatched carts and sneaking into stores to steal clothing appropriate for Dorne’s steaming climate. Shortly after they make it out of the city they abandon the stolen car for an abandoned one left on the side of the road. They find a stash of gold dragons hidden under the seat.

                     To contribute to their journey, Margaery does most of the driving. Rather than take the Rose Road through Highgarden, Margaery takes backroads which lead through woodlands and up to the mountains. There’s fewer stopping points, which means fewer chances of being recognized by a Lannister sympathizer or a well-meaning citizen.

                     The quiet hours when Ygritte was asleep gave Margaery time to think. She doesn’t want to waste any more time on Alayne, so she focuses her thoughts on Cersei and the _Courier._ Jorah hasn’t published her first article yet. She has to find a way to convince him to publish it. The Lannisters must be working on something consequential to be so desperate to keep it under wraps. Even if they don’t, Cersei deserves to be on the run just like Margaery is.

                     Renly’s death can’t have been for nothing. He gave his life working on this story. She can’t let their work remain stuffed away on Jorah’s desk when it’s Renly’s lasting legacy.

                     Just across the mountainous border into Dorne, Ygritte suggests they stop at a B&B.

                     Four days of sleeping in a cramped car make it difficult to deny the logic in Ygritte’s idea. A hot shower, a bed. Internet connection. A way to contact Jorah. She can convince him to publish. Finishing the road to Dorne may not even be necessary.

                     Another hour stuck in the car with Ygritte could be her breaking point anyway. At the apartment when Margaery grew tired of Ygritte’s constant joking or when Ygritte became frustrated with Margaery’s need to be in control, they could escape to their rooms until tensions cooled down. On the road, there was no way to avoid each other. They’d already come to blows once after Ygritte made a comment on her driving after they’d been going non-stop for 7 hours.

                     The argument had turned onto Jon and Alayne. How each other should have known they were being played, how Margaery needed to stop taking her frustrations out on Ygritte and how Ygritte needed to stop shoving down her emotions with childish behavior.

                     They find a little place called Haven’s Paradise just north of the Dornish Marshes. They advertised wi-fi, a jacuzzi, and feather bed mattresses. Soft, plush, cloud light feather-beds.

                     “Should we try to disguise ourselves?” As far south as they are, they are still in enemy territory. Even here Cersei could have friends. Maybe Sansa would too.

                     “With what? Cheap make up?” Ygritte’s tone has grown more bite. She’s nearing the end of her fuse as well.

                     “They could recognize us. Gods why didn’t I think if this before?” She presses her head against the top of the steering wheel.

                     “We’ll do what we’ve been doing. I’ll go in, ask for rooms, poke around a bit. If they recognize me, we go on. If not, we stay the night.”

                     She squints at Ygritte. “When did you become the logical one?”

                     Ygritte pats her hand. “When I decided to take a nap while you drove for 14 hours.”

                     She turns on the radio while Ygritte  goes in. Margaery had quit listening once they reached Storm’s End. She couldn’t take the vitriol these so called radio hosts spewed toward her brother. They didn’t know. They didn’t know him. They hardly knew Renly. It was either turn off the garbage or drive through the wall of a radio station and set them straight.

                     Loras’s lawyers proclaimed his innocence. Her father promised justice for Renly and Loras. The last she had heard of Alayne she was going north with a search party. She doubts that’s true.

                     In the Dornish mountains the radio signal was terrible. The only station she could connect to was a hip hop station. She let it play.

                     Ygritte returns with a thumbs up sign. Margaery shuts off the car and grabs a plastic bag to shove their necessities into. Ygritte opens the door on the other side and grabs a handful of dragons.

                     “The woman is so old she still thinks there’s still a King. Her little assistant is dumb as rocks. He’s probably never seen a news broadcast in his life.”

                     The lobby is cozy. Simple. Smaller than it had looks from the outside. There’s a desk with the old woman Ygritte described sitting behind it. A couple of chairs across sit across from a small fire place. Leather ones with footstools. The wooden floor looked scratched from years of use, but in overall good shape. Small windows lined the far wall. There is a little desk in the far corner upon which sat an oversized computer possibly older than Margaery.

                     Ygritte drops the coins on the desk. The woman gives her a toothy grin and slides a pair of keys across the desk. “First room on the right, Sandra.” She doesn’t spare a glance for Margaery.

                     There are two full sized beds in the spacious room, a bed stand between them. Pale pink curtains are drawn, lighting the room in a reddish hue from the setting sun. Margaery puts the bag on the ground, kicks off her shoes, and collapses on to the nearest bed. Within a matter of minutes, she’s asleep.

                     The room is dark when she wakes up. She fumbles around on the ground until she finds her purse. She takes out her phone. It’s nearly 3 a.m. The only sound is Ygritte’s slow, heavy breaths.

                      She finds a hair tie in her bag and wrangles her hair into a loose bun then gets up and quietly shuts the door behind her.

                     She goes back to the lobby, now lit with a dim lamp rather than the overhead light. A boy, whom she can only assume is the old woman’s assistant, sits at the desk with his head cradled in his arms, asleep. He’s slightly on the husky side with a lightly tanned complexion, his eyes a little too far apart from each other.

                     Noticing the computer requires a password, she returns to the front. Her fingers tap the desk rhythmically. The boy’s head shoots up. He looks confused and panicked, which quickly turns into embarrassed as he settles down and notices Margaery smiling politely at him. “Hello there. Is the computer available to all guests?”

                     He blinks at her. “Uh, yeah, Yeah!” He scrambles around, moving pens and binders around until he finds a small square post-it note. He hands it to her. “Just type that in and you’re good to go.”

                     She smiles and thanks him. The computer is as ancient as Margaery suspected. It takes forever for the desktop to load. When she clicks on the internet icon, a dial-up sound starts.

                     “The mountains block out any modern connection. It’s a bummer when you need wi-fi for video games,” says the boy.

                     “I can imagine,” she replies succinctly.

                     Apparently that was the wrong thing to do. The boy comes closer. “What are you doing up so late for anyway?”

                     She turns and flashes him another smile. “I’ll tell you why if you tell me why you’re manning the desk at such a late hour.”

                     “Ole Nan insists on 24-hour care. Running a double shift is easier when there’s no one to deal with.”

                     The screen finally loads. She types in a Dothraki tabloid website. Hopefully that will satisfy the boy’s curiosity for what she’s doing.

                     “My friend and I are on a cross-country road trip. Checking the views from the Reach out to Dragonstone. Site seeing. I drove all day. As you can tell, my sleeping hours suffered for that decision.”

                     He asks her about all the famous sites of the Reach. The statue of Garth Greenhand, the pools of Highgarden, the Agricultural museum. All of which Margaery had visited numerous times as a child. As she speaks, he goes back to whatever work he needed to do. As long as she talks, he’s content. She uses the distraction to create an anonymous email.

                     “Do you believe the stories? That dragons used to live on Dragonstone?” he comes back.

                     Margaery laughs. “It’s a fun tale to spook children. Perhaps thousands of years ago during the time of Aegon the Conqueror, if ever.”

                     He shrugs and goes back to work. “If there were, I would bet they were huge. Larger than planes.”

                     She types quickly. An anonymous plea to Jorah to “publish what you’re holding on to”. He’ll know it’s her. She sends it and logs out, erasing her history.

                     “It’s been lovely meeting you…” she offers him her hand.

                     He juggles the papers in his hand back and forth before setting them down and shaking hers. “Hot Pie.”

                     “Hot Pie?”

                     “It‘s a nickname. I helped my mum with the bakery before Ole Nan hired me. All the customers said I made the best pies in the country. My real name’s Lewys” His voice fills with pride.

                     She smirks. “As a pie connoisseur, I’ve had the pleasure of tasting many pies in my time.”

                     “Mine are better than all of them. I swear it.”

                     “A bold statement,” she stretches and yawns, making a show of her fatigue. “I must be off to bed. Long drive in the morning.”

                     Hot Pie averts his eyes from her, obviously trying not to stare at anything too long. “Have a nice sleep then, Miss.”

                     She waves as she walks back.

                     Her case is pled, and still she feels uncertain. Perhaps months ago she could have sacrificed the story. She would have found another angle, another way to prove what Cersei was. There was no going back now. Not when Loras and Renly had suffered this much .

                     If he refuses… It won't matter. It will be just another obstacle.

                     When she drifts back to sleep, dreams fill her head. Not dreams, memories. Laughing with Renly and Loras. Seeing him take photos on the job. Introducing him to the first girlfriend she had ever brought home in King’s Landing.

                     They shift to memories of waking up in a warm sunlit bed, of softly kissing a pale, freckled chest and of lazy fingers drawing patterns on her thigh. Early morning conversations of nothing in particular and giggles at lame jokes. Bright blue eyes smiling down at her and soft whispers of endearments in her ear. No truer than a dream.

                     She wakes up with a long stretch and rolls over. Despite the unbidden vision, she’d slept better than she had in nearly two weeks. Morning sunlight turns the room a shade of pink again. The shower is running, telling her Ygritte is only starting her morning routine.

                     Margaery ruffles her curls. She changes into fresher clothes and wanders down the hall, finding the bathroom not reserved for single rooms. After she finishes in there, she comes back she finds the kitchen. It’s small, slightly bigger than a closet. It’s not quite a continental breakfast, but there’s boxes of cereal sitting out. She goes to the fridge to get the milk. On the stove beside the fridge sits a pie pan with a lid covering it. On top of the lid is a sticky note.

                     “To the brown-haired woman in 02. Told you my pies are the best- Hot Pie”

                     Margaery snorts. She decides to forgo though cereal and grabs a paper plate and plastic fork from the small stack of them on top of the fridge. She cuts herself a hearty portion of the pie and takes it back with her into the lobby. She takes one of the chairs. Hot Pie has been replaced by a tall, quiet black man with buzzed white hair. He smiles briefly at her before returning to his work.

                     She has to contain a moan of delight after taking the first bite, earning her a queer look from the man at the desk. It’s apple, her favorite. Hot Pie wasn’t shy adding cinnamon, which Margaery would never complain about. She can find hints of nutmeg and vanilla. Hot Pie hadn’t been boasting of his talents. If anything, he undersold them.

                     As she digs into the second bite, Ygritte pops up from around the corner. Her hair is still damp from her shower. “Pie for breakfast Marge? I’ve truly lost you to the dark side.”

                     She glares at her for using her real name rather than the fake one they came up with. She looks back to the desk. He’s watching them with mild interest.

                     “My pie. Go get your own deskman to make you one.”

                     Ygritte grins and sits down in the other chair. “How did you seduce this poor lad into baking you a pie?”

                     Margaery takes another bite and licks her lips. “I did this crazy thing called being a nice person. And what do you know, he did something nice back.”

                     “Hide your secret then. I’ll just mooch off their benefits,” Ygritte goes into the kitchen and returns with a slice of pie as well. She takes a bite and, unlike Margaery, makes no effort to hide her pleasure. “Gods be good this is the greatest thing I’ve ever tasted. I’m going to live here forever. I could live off this for the rest of my life.” She takes another bite. “Mmmm, I would marry this man for a slice of his pies.”

                     Margaery laughs, still very much aware of the man at the desk. He looks over every thirty seconds or so before turning back to his work. A queasy feeling rises in her gut. She loses appetite for the rest of her pie. She offers the rest to Ygritte and excuses herself to take a shower.

                     She lets the steaming water run over her until it turns lukewarm before stepping out and drying off. She wraps one of the complimentary robes around herself and brushes her teeth, thankful that Ygritte had brought the necessary toiletries in with her during her shower.

                     She opens the bathroom door and jumps backward, nearly slipping on the wet floor. The desk man stands in front of the beds, staring at her. She opens her mouth to scream. He holds up a sheet of paper. _Don’t scream_. _The Lannisters are coming._

It’s enough to give her pause.

                     “You should be glad not everyone here is as daft as the old woman and Lewys,” he rumbles.

                     Margaery takes a cautious step forward. “What do you want?”

                     “It’s not what I want. Cersei Lannister has arranged for several of her business assistants to stay here this evening. She is staying at the Dhaxos.”

                     The last Margaery had heard, Cersei was heading North. She had not anticipated directly confronting Cersei. Although Myrcella lived in Dorne, Cersei had never visited the southern-most region of the country. The visit couldn’t be for her daughter’s sake.

                     “You know who I am.”

                     “You have to be blind or an idiot to not know who you are. Or Lewys. Lucky girl that you were to land here."

                     “And you’ve yet to call the cops.” Otherwise he would not have told her of Cersei.

                     “We need not involve the police, Ms. Tyrell. We know well the grip the Lannisters have on our esteemed peace keepers.” He sits down on the bed, looking at home.

                     Margaery slowly approaches the opposite bed. “If you’re not here to turn me in to the police, and have no interest of helping the Lannisters, who are you?”

                     Her mind latches onto the idea he could work for the Starks. Return the lost prize.

                     He laughs deeply. “My employer has taken an interest in you.”

                     “Your employer?” He couldn’t possibly be speaking of the old woman.

                     “Yes. He knows much about you Ms. Tyrell. What you’ve done. He’s made arrangements for you.” He drops his voice, taking a more serious tone. “Leave. Pack your things and go. Don’t stop until you reach Godsgrace.” He hands her one of the sheets of paper. She flips it over. And address is scribbled on the back. “Go here.”

                     She knows people. Lies and motives come naturally to her. After Alayne she wasn’t sure she could trust her instincts. He was helping her. She can’t piece together why. If he was one of Sansa’s men, surely he would have tried to contact a Stark by now. That much he had not lied about. “Who is he?”

                      The man smiles. “The Red Viper.”

                    


	23. Deja vu and a Deal

                    Sweat trickles down her forehead to her cheek. Even in late fall, Dorne is hotter than the sixth hell. Margaery wipes her face and leans back against the hood of the car, singeing the spot on her back where her shirt had ruffled up. A moment later Ygritte walks casually out of the hair salon.

                     From here she doesn’t know where to go. They have enough money to stay here for a time though. Here being Sandstone.

                     She was done trusting people who wouldn’t tell her the truth. Anyone named the Red Viper couldn’t be trustworthy and the man at the hotel refused to tell her more. As beneficial as the news about Cersei had been, she wasn’t going to sell herself as a pawn in gratitude.

                     Their options became more limited. Godsgrace was no longer a possibility, not with this Viper expecting her. Sunspear and the Water Gardens had already been off the list. Myrcella’s apartment was in the Water Gardens and she attended the University of Sunspear. Cersei would be there shortly to legitimize her trip.

                     Margaery had listed off the other viable cities. Ygritte chose Sandstone. She liked it because of its fame as the most haunted city in Westeros; Margaery liked that it was in the middle of nowhere, far from where Cersei was going. They could disappear.

                     After driving through the mountains, it was another two-day journey to Sandstone. Miles upon miles of road passed by between towns with nothing but sand dunes and the occasional lizard lion in view. Rather than stop at another motel, they went back to sleeping in the car between driving shifts. It saved them at least a day of travel.

                     Not wanting to face the same dilemma that occurred at the inn, she insisted on Ygritte getting them disguise supplies. Nothing too outlandish. Some hair dye, a little make up.

                     She jogs out of the store with a plastic bag and a grin. “You’re going to look hot.”

                     “I’m already hot,” Margaery winks for good measure.

                     They get in the car. Margaery blasts the rickety air conditioning. Warm air blows out initially. It takes the unit time to cool down. Ygritte hisses as her thighs hit the hot leather. “Mother Crone, that burns!”

                     “Welcome to Dorne!” Margaery mocks. She grabs the bag out of Ygritte’s lap. “You’re kidding?” She holds up the two boxes of blonde hair dye.

                     Ygritte shrugs. “You won’t look different enough with black or red hair and I wanted to try going blonde.”

                     Margaery glares at her. She gives Ygritte the bag and starts the car. They return to their hotel, a dank place that could shelter them for a few weeks based on their limited funds.

                     She used to dye hair when she was a teenager. An array of colors from black to pink, but never blonde. The color had always irked her, though she didn’t know why. 

                     She’s pleasantly surprised by the dye job. The dirty blonde complimented her eyes well and the dye looked natural. She couldn’t say the same for Ygritte.

                     “The bottle says platinum blonde! I look like a platinum strawberry!” Ygritte groans.

                     She flips on the TV. From the bathroom, Margaery can hardly hear it..

                     “Turn up the volume.” She asks as she flips through her new hair in the mirror.

                     Ygritte obliges.

                     “-court indictments for the murder of Renly Baratheon began today,” She runs out of the bathroom. On screen Loras is being escorted to the defenfdant’s bench. His eyes and cheeks look hollow. His hair is wiry and unkempt, far from his usual fluffy curls. He’s growing a patchy beard. Margaery covers her mouth to hide the gasp. She hasn’t seen him in weeks, deliberately. Now she feels guilty for avoiding the newspapers and TV’s. “Through his lawyers, Loras Tyrell pleaded not guilty to the murder of Renly Baratheon. Mr. Tyrell has not spoke to the media since his arrest. His father, Mace Tyrell, issued a statement on his behalf.”

                     Her father’s face appeared on the screen. “As I have said for weeks, my son did not commit this crime. Renly Baratheon’s murderers are still roaming this country, possibly even this city and yet it it is my boy being accused of such heinous atrocities. He tells you my daughter’s kidnappers were the perpetrators. Where is the justice in this? For my son and for my daughter?”

                     “Chief of Police Jaime Lannister issued a written statement saying that his department is doing all it can to achieve justice. He says they are are working diligently on finding Margaery Tyrell, and her missing roommate, Ygritte Thenn. Families of both girls are still offering rewards for any information on their whereabouts. Loras Tyrell will have his case presented to a grand jury on Thursday.”

                     The reporter transitions the topic to the mining laws set to take place in the Storm Lands within a month. Margaery sits on the bed.

                     Loras looked like a living corpse. His eyes were dead, as glossy and blank as Renly’s had been. He was thousands of miles away from her. Who knew what he was thinking. She wished she could hold him, let him cry against her like he did for her when she was a kid. He was supposed to be the strong one. Now she had to be the strong one. Somehow she’d make it back to him.

                     Ygritte sits on the bed next to her. She brushes a few strands on Margaery’s hair out her face. “Beating yourself up over it won’t change anything Marge.”

                     “I can’t help him.”

                     “What about your story. What did Jorah say?”

                     She snorts. His reply was one sentence. “I place the safety of my reporters over all else.” Which translated to, better luck elsewhere Tyrell. She could understand his trepidation. He was under pressure to please public while not pissing off the Lannisters. Renly’s death and her disappearance had been the last straw.

                     Yet he was a coward. For all he spoke of truth and guardianship, he was too scared to give it. He had a way to bring down the Lannisters and bring justice to those the mafia had wronged. He let it continue instead.

                     Margaery lays her head on Ygritte’s shoulder. She’s jolted off as Ygritte gasps and jumps up. “I almost forgot what today is!”

                     “What’s today?”

                     “You don’t remember? Seriously? You’ve had 27 of them, 28 as of today...”

                     Margaery knits her eyebrows together. Her birthday can’t be today. It’s on….crap it is today.

                     “Ygritte, we have bigger issues than me turning 28.”

                     She shakes her head. “Nope. We’re going out tonight. Me, you, and whoever inhabits that club down the block.”

                     “The whole point of being in Dorne is to avoid attention. Do you really think that will happen if we go to a club?”

                     “You need to get your mind off Loras, and mafias, and stories.” She sits down again next to Margaery.

                     “Going out and partying won’t help them at all! At least with my work-” Her voice rises and her throat locks up. She hasn’t cried in weeks, but she can feel it coming again.

                     “You can’t do shit with your work right now. You can’t publish, which means driving yourself into the ground over this does more harm than good…This could be good for us Margaery. I want to forget about him. Move on.”

                     Margaery looks up at Ygritte. It’s the first time she’s opened up about Jon since they left.

                     “I can’t stop thinking about him. His stupid brooding frown, those damned curls. The way he snores in his sleep. I hate him.” Ygritte bats away the tears in her eyes. “Look at me. That dumb ass has me crying.

                     Margaery wraps Ygritte in a hug. “Hooking up with someone at the club won’t help you move on.”

                     “It’s worth a shot.”

                     “Fine. I’ll go. Only to keep an eye on you.”

                     Ygritte hugs back. “Thanks. Happy birthday.”

 

                     Everything about this night feels like déjà vu. An unfamiliar bar. Fixing her make up in the bathroom. Playing wing woman for Ygritte. As well intended as Ygritte may have been, Margaery feels miserable.

                     She watches Ygritte flirt with a tall, tan man. He has straight black hair, clean shaven. The opposite of Jon in every way.

                     And yet Margaery keeps expecting to look up and see her own black-haired beauty walk up and flash her a knowing smile. Bat those pretty blue eyes and echo words that Margaery had savored months ago. She sips the wine Ygritte ordered for her. Not the typical night club drink, but wine was the equivalent of water in Dorne.

                     She buries her head into her folded arms. It’s the first time in days she has allowed her mind to linger on Alayne. She misses her. If she was here, they’d be laughing. Joking about some stupid work incident or theorizing what will happen next on Dunk and Egg. Or kissing.

                     Margaery rests her chin on her arms and  glares at Ygritte, now flexing her arms for the Dornish man. How dare she get to move on when Margaery can’t convince herself to do so. Some birthday present this was.

                     She jumps when someone clears their throat. A woman smiles devilishly at her. Her shiny black hair is tied back neatly, her dark brown eyes challenge Margaery.

                     “May I sit here?”

                     Margaery nods. She sips more of her wine.

                     Neither speaks for a moment, and then, “The club is busier tonight than usual.”

                     She turns her head. The woman is looking at the clubbers dancing on the floor.

                     “Quentyn seems to have found his match.”

                     The woman looks in Ygritte's direction.

                     “Sandra can match anyone.”

                     The woman turns back to her. “Do you know her?”

                     “She’s my friend.”

                     “Your friend is about to devour my cousin.”

                     Margaery shrugs. “She tends to do that.”

                     “She knows what she wants, I’ll give her that,” the woman says, a smirk in her voice.

                     Margaery looks at her hard. “It’s not hard to figure out what you want. Unlike half the people in this godsforsaken country, she does what she wants. More people should pursue that.”

                     The woman studies Margaery. “What brings you and your friend to Sandstone?”

                     “Our car broke down. The mechanic said it will take a few days to repair it.”

                     She orders herself a drink. “Best of luck then. The mechanics here are crooks or bums.”

                     “So were the mechanics in the next town over. The crooks and bums here rob you with a smile on their face though.” Margaery finishes her wine.

                     The woman laughs, a harsh, bitter sound. “You’re funny for a Northerner. What’s your name?”

                     Margaery refrains herself from arguing that she’s not a Northerner. She’s from the Reach, the South. Everything is North to the Dornish though. Just as everything is South to Ygritte. “Alisayne.”

                     The woman sticks out her hand. “Obara. It’s been a pleasure, honey, but unfortunately I have work tomorrow. Perhaps I’ll see you around again before you must be off.”

                     “Perhaps.”

                     The woman smiles and leaves, heading toward her cousin, who is currently making out with Ygritte. Obara shakes Quentyn’s shoulder and barks at him.                      

                     Ygritte gets off of him and picks up her drink. She leaves the cousins bickering and returns to Margaery.

                     “What’s his name?” Margaery asks.

                     Ygritte finishes her drink. “No idea. He’s a good kisser. Not great, but good. I saw you talking to that woman.” She nudges her.

                     Margaery shrugs.

                     “You should’ve made a move Marge.”

                     “I’m not interested in her.”

                     “I’ve seen you flirt with dozens of people, men and women, you had absolutely no interest in,” Ygritte sits down.

                     “I don’t feel like flirting tonight. I’m tired,” she tries to escape the conversation and leave, only to run into a brute of a man.

                     “Where’s a sexy thing like you off to? It’s still early,” he slurs. He leans in toward Margaery and huffs his cigarette-tinged breath into Margaery’s face.

                      “Sorry sweetheart. It’s not happening for you tonight.” Margaery nudges past him. She nearly screams as he yanks her back by her shoulder.

                     “Hey! Let her go you oversized turd,” Ygritte yells. She elbows him in the back, but it does nothing but irritate the man.

                     Margaery tries to smack him, but he catches her wrist. “Don’t be a prude.”

                     Ygritte clocks him in the jaw. He lets go of Margaery and goes after Ygritte, shoving her into the tables.

                     He smiles and starts coming back. Margaery grabs a glass, prepared to knock him in the head with it, when a blur side swipes the behemoth, undercutting his legs and taking him to the ground.

                     Quentyn locks a loose chokehold on the man and pulls out a small knife. “We’ve been over this Luthor,” he tssks, “Do we really want to talk to my uncle again?”

                     The brute looks like a wounded puppy, shaking his head back and forth.

                     “Are you alright?” asks Obara.

                     “I’m fine. Twats like him are nothing new to me,” Margaery shakes off her skirt. Of course, those twats had never been that large before.

                     Obara follows her to Ygritte. Margaery helps her up. She’s not injured, but she is fired up. She storms over to the man Quentyn has pinned to the ground and kicks him in the balls. The man screeches and grabs for his groin.

                     “Next time you won’t have a cock left for me to kick.” She rears her leg back to kick again, but Margaery pulls her aside.

                     “I think it’s best that we leave. Now.”

                     Ygritte looks at her before reluctantly walking outside, blowing a kiss to Quentyn on her way out.

                     “Thank you,” Margaery says to Obara. Then turns to Quentyn. “Both of you.”

                     “Do you attract trouble like this everywhere?” Obara jokes.

                     “More and more,” she says as she leaves.

                    

                    

 

                     The next day, Margaery goes to the convenience store where Ygritte bought the hair dye. It’s the first time Margaery has been inside a store in weeks. Her tension drifts away as no one seems to notice or care that she’s there.

                     She grabs some cereal and orange juice, Ygritte’s hangover cure, as well as some pans and potholders to cook on. They can’t keep living off fast food and frozen meals.   

                     She uses the self-checkout to leave as quickly as possible.

                     “Alisayne?” says a familiar voice.

                     She continues checking out her stuff, not caring at all about who this Alisayne was.

                     “Alisayne?” the voice repeats and gets closer. Margaery recognizes it as the woman from last night.

                     It clicks that _she’s_ Alisayne. She whirls around and is stunned by how close Obara is. Her tanktop and shorts show off her deep tan.

                     “Alisayne, I wasn’t expecting to see you again,” Obara says.

                     “Nor I you,” Margaery agrees. “Small world, huh.”

                     “Well Sandstone is far from a big town. Especially compared to Sunspear. Grocery run?”

                     She nods and puts the potholder she’s holding into the bag. “Yes. It appears as though my friend is particularly fond of Dornish men, so we’ll be staying for awhile.”

                     “Are you not fond of our dashing Casanovas?” Obara jokes.

                     “Casanovas have never been my thing. I’m more of a Cleopatra girl.” Margaery flashes a smile. The flirtation comes so easily without Ygritte’s pressure. So does the immense guilt.

                     “I don’t want to say it was  obvious, but…” Obara brushes her fingers against her arm, like Alayne would have when flirting. “How are you feeling? After last night?”

                     Margaery goes back to her groceries. She deposits the coins into the machine and gathers her bags. “I’m fine, really. Nothing I haven’t experienced before. But I must be off. I have a hungover friend to return to.”

                     Obara reaches out and stops her. “Wait. Before you run off, there’s someone I want you to meet. He knows cars well and might be able to help you with your problems.”

                     “Oh you don’t need to. I’m sure the mechanic has already taken care of it,”Margaery lies and tries to pull off once more. Obara doesn’t let her go.

                     “Just meet him. He can check and make sure they’re not ripping you off.”

                     Margaery relents. “Okay. Where is he?”

                     Obara guides her to the employee’s lounge. “He’s on his break.” She opens the door.

                     There’s no one in there except a tall man with a small head and a neatly trimmed goatee. His red and black suit is out of place for the convenience store. “Ms. Tyrell, you have proven a very difficult woman to find.”

                     Margaery’s eyes widen. She spins around, but Obara cuts her off. Each time she tries to sidestep her, Obara corners her further into the room.

                     The man laughs. “Ms. Tyrell, you have nothing to fear here in Dorne. I’ve been seeking you for a long time though.”

                     Defeated, Margaery moves closer to him. She’s sure she’s seen him somewhere. “Why?”

                     “Because of your work. The articles you’ve published. You’re a hero to us Dornish,” he explains.

                     Margaery eyes him wearily. “Those were published anonymously. How did you know I wrote them?”

                     “My brother works with you. Doran,” he sticks out his hand. “My name is Oberyn Martell. You may call me Oberyn, or the Red Viper. Or the Prince of Dorne. They all suit me well.”

                     “Your man said you’d be in Godsgrace,” Margaery tilts her head.

                     He nods. “As I was. Patiently awaiting your arrival. Imagine my surprise to hear from my daughter that you were in the place the gods designed as eternal damnation for the worst men and women.” He liked to joke, she realized.

                     Margaery rolls her eyes. Smug doesn’t begin to describe him. “And that would include the Lannisters.”

                     His eyes darken and his fist tightens around it’s grip on the table, and all mirth disappeared from his sharp features. “The Lannister raped and killed my sister and then murdered her children. I’d like see them burn and choke on their own blood.”

                     Margaery remembered the bitterness in Doran’s eyes whenever he looked at the front page and saw the name Lannister. She knew he had a history with them, which is why Jorah never let him work on stories involving them. She felt a bond grow with him, knowing that they both lost someone close to the glamorized thugs.

                     He pulls out the chair and gestures for Margaery to sit. She does and he pulls out the other chair to sit in. “We share a common enemy. Friendships have been molded from less.”

                     “How do I know you’re not another enemy?” Margaery taps her fingers.

                     He laughs. “You didn’t lie, Obara. She has quite the spirit.”

                     Margaery glances back at the woman, then again looks at Oberyn. “That’s not an answer.”

                     “From what I understand, you have too many enemies to question an offer of friendship. But if you insist, I easily could have had police here to meet you rather than myself. What would await you after that I do not know. Instead I offer you protection. I will not rescind my offer, Ms. Tyrell, but please accept it quickly. Although we Dornish do so love you, we both know Cersei has eyes everywhere.”

                     “Let’s say I accept your friendship. I have stipulations.”

                     “I expected nothing less,” he slides a sheet of paper in front of her. “Because I do as well. You will grant me access to your work and help me conquer Cersei Lannister.”

                     “I want time to think,” she says as she reads through the document.

                     Oberyn nods. “I understand. Until you make your decision, you shall be granted my protection. And, please, accept this as a gift of our trust.”

                     He slides a box across the table. She catches it and opens it. There’s a new phone and charger inside. “Completely untraceable.”

                     Margaery looks back him. He flashes a blazing white smile with the fangs of a viper.


	24. Allies

In the days following Oberyn’s proposal, their situation changed radically. Oberyn accommodated them in the nicest home in Sandstone. Obara and her sisters became their own retinue of bodyguards, although Margaery wished they would disappear.

                     She should have learned after Sansa that a mafia was never truly dead. The Martells had never been a mob in the truest sense; they were more like a militia protecting their homeland from the scavenging Northern powers. Their vigilante organization was wider respected with the name of “mafia”. The mafia, however, disbanded after the fall of Aerys Targaryen. Shortly after, it became headline news that Elia Martell had been raped and murdered. The perpetrator was never found.

                     Margaery didn’t doubt that the Lannisters had been involved. Oberyn believed Tywin Lannister ordered Gregor Clegane to send a message to the Dornish. Now Oberyn had one to send to Cersei Lannister.

                      Margaery sits in her designated room playing with the buttons on the phone. Even with an untraceable number, she doesn’t dare call Jorah. As much as she needs him to publish, she knows that Cersei or the police, possibly both, likely bugged the line. Anything she said could be taken out of context and used to hurt the other members of the King’s Courier staff. Instead, she calls another number.

                     The first two calls go straight to voicemail, but on the third she picks up.

                     “I am not interested in whatever you’re selling. Now hang up and go harass-” Olenna Tyrell barks.

                     “Grandmother! Grandmother please,” Margaery interjects.

                     “Margaery? Sweet girl is that you?” she whispers.

                     Margaery blinks away tears and nods. “Yes, grandmother it’s me.”

                     The other end is quiet except for the shuffling of feet and the shutting of a door. “My rose, you’ve no idea what a relief it is to hear your voice. Are you hurt? Where are you?”

                     Margaery takes a shaky deep breath. It’s all she can do not cry. “I’m fine. I’ll be fine. I can’t tell you where I am. Just…just please tell Loras that I’m sorry,” her voice hitches and she sobs. “I’m so sorry. Please tell him that Grandmother.” She lets the tears come freely now.

                     “Margaery. Margaery, I will I promise. Where are you? We need to know where you are so we can get you. We’ll lock away whoever has done this to you.” Concern grows in her voice.

                     “I’m somewhere safe, where they don’t hurt their friends,” is all the hint Margaery will give her. She’ll understand. “I really needed to hear your voice. I love you.” The door creeks open. “Goodbye.”

                     She hangs up the phone the moment Obara walks in. She has a plate of cookies and a warm smile. Her smile turns into a frown when she sees the tears on Margaery’s face. “What’s wrong?”

                     “Nothing,” she wipes the tears from her eyes.

                     Obara sits down on the couch though Margaery wishes she would sit on the other side of the room. “Dorne is a safe place, Ms. Tyrell. You can feel free to admit the things that trouble you. I won’t tell. I only want to help.”

                     When Margaery doesn’t say anything, Obara scoots closer. “You’re a fascinating woman. Passionate. Brave. Cunning. Beautiful,” she tucks a hair behind Margaery’s ear. “You must be something special to have so many people trying to help you. Your parents, the King’s Courier staff, your girlfriend.”

                     “I don’t have a girlfriend,” Margaery mutters.

                     “Oh? But she’s been on the news looking for you?”

                     “I don’t care. She lied to me so we’re done.”

                     “What a bitch. I’d never lie to you.”

                     Margaery turns her head. Obara stares back at her. “Why do you care?”

                     Obara leans in closer. Margaery can feel her breath against her face. “Do I need a reason? That’s what friends do. I’d like to be your friend Margaery.”

                     The thought crosses her mind that she wants a friend too. Someone who doesn’t know the depths of the baggage she carries.

                     The door swings open again. Obara’s sister Nymeria stands in the door way.

                     “What?” Obara snaps.

                     “Father wants to speak with you. He says you have important business to run for him.”

                     Obara stomps up. She turns back to Margaery with a frustrated smile. “My apologies, Margaery. We can talk more later if you want.” She stomps out, scolding her sister after the door closes.

                     Later doesn’t happen. When Obara returns, she tells Margaery that she will be meeting Oberyn in the VIP room of the bar.

                     “Why is it always bars?” Margaery mutters.

                     “It’s the gods telling you to hook up already,” Ygritte teases.

                     “The gods don’t give a damn about anything,” Obara announces as she leads the women through the front doors. “The gods do what they will and we live with the consequences.”

                     “The gods just observe until they see fit to intervene,” Ygritte mumbles. Her gods, the old gods, had always been a touchy subject that rarely came up. Margaery had the sense that she had an affinity for them buried somewhere within her.

                     Oberyn has one leg crossed over his lap as he laughs at something the man standing beside him must have said. He turns his head and smiles when he sees Obara approaching with the women.

                     “Ms. Tyrell, Ms. Thenn. Please sit. Olyvar can get you drinks.”

                     “I’ll take the oldest drink you have,” Ygritte says.

                     “The oldest what?” Olyvar asks.

                     “Whatever you have that’s old,” Ygritte asserts.

                     He turns to Margaery.

                     “I’ll have water.”

                     He scurries off. Oberyn smiles and folds his hands over each other. “Have you considered my offer Ms. Tyrell?”

                     Margaery glances at Ygritte, then to Oberyn. “I have. And I have my stipulations.” She slides her own hand written contract across the table.

                     Oberyn reads over the contract and half-snickers. “Seems fairly standard Margaery. The way you reacted, I was expecting something difficult.”

                     “I’m not difficult to please if you do as I see Oberyn,” She remains stone-faced. She will not let him have leverage.

                     “Get me a pen,” he orders. Nymeria takes one out of her purse. Oberyn signs his name with a flourish and hands the pen across the table to Margaery.

                     She signs the line.

                     “Shall we drink to out new arrangement?” he asks cheekily as Olyvar returns with the drinks. He, Margaery and Ygritte clink their glasses.

                     “Now that that is done, Quentyn was going to ‘teach’ me pool,” Ygritte gets up with her drink.

                     “Don’t hustle the boy too badly,” Margaery calls after her.

                     Obara takes the seat that Ygritte left behind. “I believe we had a conversation to finish.” She smiles softly. Her braid falls neatly over her bare shoulder and over the top of her halter top.

                     “We don’t have to. I had nothing more to say.”

                     Obara drinks her wine. “Have you ever dueled anyone Margaery?”

                     “Like fencing?” Margaery asks.

                     Obara nods.

                     “No. My brother did. Does. He’s quite good at it.”

                     “It can be cathartic. Like boxing or running, but more stress on the mind than on the body. I could teach you some time, if you’d like. Or I could teach you boxing. A few self-defense maneuvers,” she offers.

                     Margaery cracks a smile, earning her one from Obara. “I think I’d like that. You should teach Ygritte too. As great as she is at using full force, sometimes she could be a bit more subtle.”

                     “Does she know the definition of subtle?” Obara grins.

                     Margaery laughs. Not the hollow laugh she’s been using, but a genuine one. She looks down at her glass. Perhaps a drink won’t hurt. She doesn’t need to keep an eye on Ygritte. She doesn’t need to be the responsible one tonight.

                     “What’s your favorite drink?” she asks.

                     Obara’s eyebrows pop up in surprise. “You’re getting alcohol? Well sweetheart, you have to try the Sundial.”

                     “Order me one while I use the bathroom?”

                     “Yeah. Sure thing,” The glow on Obara’s cheeks says everything about how she feels about Margaery’s sudden change in attitude.

                     Margaery even feels lighter. It’s as though signing that contract was signing away part of the burden on her shoulders. Oberyn and the Martells would help her free Loras. They’d take down Cersei and Margaery would have a fresh start. Far, far from here.

                     Perhaps in time she could forget about her lost love and how it was trampled upon.

                     She shouldn’t have let her thoughts drift back to Alayne. It feels like a betrayal, even though she knows Alayne was never real. Never hers.

                     When she exits the bathroom, a glimpse of a goatee and short dark brown hair drags her from her conflicting thoughts. “Garlan?”

                     The man walks into the bathroom. Without thinking, she walks in after him. “Garlan?”

                     The man turns around, startled. Another man grumbles about drunks as he zips his pants and bounds out of the bathroom. Margaery doesn’t notice him though. Because it’s him. It’s really him.

                     Garlan stares at her for a moment, before realization dawns on his face. “Margaery? Is that you?”

                     Margaery nods and starts crying. Garlan rushes up and gathers her in his arms. She wraps her arms around his neck tight. She tries to explain that she’s sorry and that she’s going to fix everything, but all that comes are sobs.

                     “It’s okay Margie. You’re safe,” Garlan mumbles.

                     A wolf-whistle echoes through the bathroom as the door swings shut.

                     “Mind your own damn business,” Margaery barks at him as she whipes her eyes. He scampers into a stall and slams the door shut.

                     “Let’s step outside. Come on,” he leads her out of the bathroom and out the doors.

                     She has so many questions. Why is here? How’s Leonette and Loras and father? Where is he going?

                     It’s the question he asks that catches her off guard. “Where is Ygritte?”

                     “Ygritte? She’s inside,” Margaery says. “Garlan what’s going on? What are you doing here?”

                     “I’d like to ask you the same thing.”

                     “I’ll explain Garlan, I promise. Just know that I’m going to fix it all. Loras, the Lannisters, everything,” Margaery implores. “I need you to meet someone. He’s going to help us. He’s been helping me.”

                     “There’s a plan in place already for Loras. Grandmother has been working on a plan. She and Sansa have-”

                     “Sansa? “You know? You know what the fuck they did and you’re working with them!?”

                     Garlan looks up and sighs. “I know you’re feeling hurt. And I know there’s been misunderstanding with you.”

                     “Is that what it’s called?” Margaery takes a few steps away, then paces back. “She is a mob boss. She fucking lied to me about who she was, she killed Renly. Hells, she’s probably killed dozens of people and you think I’m the one with a misunderstanding!”

                     Garlan reaches for her shoulder. “Marge look at me. Look at me. It’s all a fucked up situation and I’m so sorry. I won’t make you do anything you don’t want. Gran only wants you home. They gave us our best chance.”

                     Knowing that Olenna had known what Sansa did and still worked with her nauseated Margaery. She had pretended that she knew nothing on the phone earlier.

                     A commotion gathers inside, interrupting their argument. A crowd gathers toward the back, where the pool tables are. Margaery and Garlan follow the crowd. Margaery pushes her way forward until she can finally see.

                     A man with a buzz cut and plaid shirt glowers at Ygritte, who defiantly barks. “I can do whatever the fuck I want.”

                     “You’re giving half the bar a show. Is that what you want?” he yells and Margaery knows it’s Jon.

                     She charges forward to get between them as Ygritte clenches her fist.

                     “Why does it matter, asshole?” Quentyn shoves him. The crowd ooh’s.

                     Jon storms up and shoves him back. “Because you’re all over my girlfriend, “asshole”.”

                     “We’re not together! Why the fuck do you think we’d be together after the shit you pulled?!” Ygritte tries to push Margaery aside, but Margaery holds her ground.

                     “Ygritte, we’re drawing attention. Let Quentyn handle him.”

                     Over Ygritte’s shoulder, Margaery watches as Obara runs past. She spins around and sees Obara draw a knife. “Touch my cousin again and see what happens.”

                     “I don’t give a shit about your cousin. I want to talk to my girlfriend.” Jon calms his voice.

                     “Ex! Ex-girlfriend!” Ygritte yells.

                     The crowd suddenly hushes and disperses, except Garlan and the rest of the Martells. Oberyn slithers into the fray. He looks Jon up and down. “You’re not from Dorne.”

                     Jon pauses, distracted from Ygritte. “Who are you?”

                     “My name is Oberyn. Now why are you hassling my friends, boy?”

                     Jon shifts uncomfortably. “Sir, I just want to talk to my friends.” He looks at Margaery and Ygritte.

                     Oberyn walks slowly toward them, hands laced behind his back. “Do you mean Ms. Tyrell and Ms. Thenn? It happens that they have recently become friends of my own. So we should get along well, should we not?”

                     “Oberyn, perhaps we can take this in private. Us and the girls and you,” Garlan comes forward finally.

                     Oberyn raises his chin. “Now you, I do know. Last time I saw you, you were a tyke. Barely up to my hip.”

                     Margaery squinches her eyebrows together. “You know my brother?”

                     “Of course, Ms. Tyrell. You don’t think your grandmother played politics without working with us do you?” He goes to Obara. “Clear out the bar. I can see our guests need time to speak.”

                     Obara curtly nods.

                     “As much as I love company, I do not appreciate my nephew being assaulted. So, ah, what is your name?” Oberyn paces back and forth with the grace of a panther.

                     “Know-nothing,” Ygritte mutters.

                     “Jon,” says Jon.

                     “So Jon, what reason could you possibly have for so rudely disturbing by eastablishment?”

                     Jon stares at the floor, clearly unsure what to say.

                     “Oberyn, we’ve come here looking for my sister. While we appreciate the hospitality you have shown her, I think it’s best if you allow her to come home with me. My family is worried. You understand the importance of family.”

                     Garlan had always been eloquent with his words. Polite and professional. Garlan told her that before Willas died he had nicknamed him “Garlan the Gallant” for his manners.

                     Oberyn considers his appeal. “Of course I do. What do you say Ms. Tyrell? Do you want to go home? Highgarden, correct?”

                     She wants home. She wants the gardens, her father, familiarity. But she doesn’t know where Sansa is. She could be outside. She could be waiting in her family home. She could be drinking tea with her mother right now for all Margaery knows. She’s not sure how she feels about that image. But she wants home. She nods. “I want to see my family.”

                     “Very well. Obara, call Tyene and tell her to make preparations for a long trip.”

                     “My apologies, Oberyn, but we only intended for Margaery and Ygritte to come with us,” Garlan clarifies.

                     “And now you will make arrangements for a few more. Olenna will understand. Margaery and I have an agreement that I intend to honor to the last term.”

                     “Oberyn is coming or I’m not going,” Margaery ends the conversation and walks out. She makes it halfway down the sidewalk before the door swings open and foot steps fall in step beside her in the humid Dornish night air.

                     She hooks her fingers into her pants pocket. “I’m sure Quentyn would have helped you pummel Jon’s face in if you’d asked.”

                     “For now, whoever gave him that hair cut took my vengeance. I’ll have to come up with something else.”

                     Margaery glances at Ygritte. Her hair is falling into her face, but she can see the wistfulness in her eyes. “Are you going to be okay?”

                     Ygritte shrugs. “Are you?”

                     “I have no idea. I don’t want to see her.” She doesn’t want her heart to break again when it hasn’t even recovered.

                    


	25. High Garden

 

                     Her favorite place used to be the garden at her grandmother’s home. Every weekend her father would come prune the bushes and cut the grass, water the flowers. Margaery loved the smell of the lilies and the orchids. She would crawl into the flower bed without a care for how it affected her dress. Then she would pick them and bring them to her father. Her father would smile and bundle them together and they’d present them as a present for her mother.

                     And yet, those weren’t the memories that came to her as Highgarden came into view. Her mind was elsewhere.

                     “She’ll be there in a couple days,” Garlan told her before they left. “She has her dog with her, so she thinks driving back from Storm’s End will be safer for her.” She’d have a day at home to prepare herself for Alayne’s arrival. As if she was a queen and not…whatever she was.

                     Rather than drive, they had taken a train from Sandstone to to the border between Dorne and the Reach. From there, her grandmother had ordered a private plane to take them to Highgarden. Margaery and Ygritte took two seats next to each other for the flight while Oberyn and Garlan sat by each other, quietly discussing their arrival. Jon managed to sneak into a seat behind Ygritte just before the plane took off.

                     “I listened to what you had to say Snow, now bugger off,” Ygritte gritted out. They’d shared a compartment with Nymeria and Quentyn on the train. From what Margaery understood, it had been a quite intense conversation with Ygritte taking her frustrations out physically.

                     “You didn’t listen, you shoved me and threw things at me,” Jon whispers. “Just hear me out.”

                     “You know nothing.”

                     “You know, you can be a real ass sometimes.”

                     Ygritte spins around in her seat and swats at Jon. Margaery tugs her back around. “Wait til the seat belt light is off before you try to kill him.”

                     Luckily for Ygritte, that means waiting all of twenty seconds. The moment she can, she unbuckles herself and turned, knocking Jon on his head.

                     “Ow! Your stupid haircut scratched me,” Ygritte rubs her hand.

                     Jon smirks. “Nice to know it has some positives.”

                     She swats again and misses.

                     “I’ve told you I’m sorry. I told you who I am?” he pleads with Ygritte.

                     “We had a deal Snow. You never turn your back on me.”

                     “You’re the one who ran away.”

                     “You betrayed me by betraying Margaery.” Ygritte glances to Margaery, then back to Jon.

                     “Margaery knows the truth too. She knows who I am, who Sansa is. There’s nothing more to know.”

                     Margaery turns around. “What about your little mafia? What’s that operation?”

                     Ygritte’s eyes dart to Jon.

                     Jon sighs. “It’s a mafia. We do mafia things. But not bad things. It’s hard to explain.”

                     “How did it come to this? The mafia was dead, why get involved again? Why not walk away? And what happened to your family? Why were you in King’s Landing? Why’d you have to string us along?” Jon grows smaller after Margaery’s rapid fire questioning.

                     “I-I can’t expain it all. A lot of it is sensitive information. Sansa-”

                     Margaery sits back down, facing away from Jon, escaping the topic she wants to speak about least.

                     Ygritte stays glaring at Jon. After a moment she gets up. She grabs him by the arm. “Hey!” he shouts. She ignores it and pulls him to the back of the plane, where there is a tiny compartment sized room.

                     For a few minutes, Margaery can hear their whispered bickering. But then the bickering fades and… gods that must be some sort of record having angry sex with your ex after fighting about him being in a mafia.

                     “What’s going on back there?” Obara asks. She slips past Margaery’s legs and takes Ygritte’s seat.

                     “It’s better not to ask.”

                     Obara places her hand on top of Margaery’s and squeezes gently. The cool metal of her golden sun ring feels oddly comforting. “I’ve never been to Highgarden before. What’s it like?”

                     Without much thought, Margaery goes into a deep discussion of the weather, the gardens, her grandmother’s home, her adventures with her brothers, her dad’s landscaping business, and her favorite bakery. Obara adds commentary here and there, smiling the entire time.

                     “You must take me there. Would you believe I’ve never had pie before?”

                     Margaery gasps. “Oh, honey, we’re fixing that the moment we get home.”

                     “I look forward to it,” Obara winks.

                     “Eh hm” Ygritte clears her throat, arms crossed over her chest as she taps her foot.

                     “Sorry, was this your seat? You were gone so long I was afraid it might get cold,” Obara says with the slightest hint of sarcasm in her voice.

                     “Yeah it is. Now move,” she orders.

                     Jon stumbles back to his seat disheveled and dazed.

                     “I’ll see you when we land, I guess. This place sounds like paradise,” Obara gets up and moves out of Ygritte’s seat. They stare at each other for a moment. Then Obara goes back to sit across the aisle from her uncle.

                     Ygritte takes her seat and rests her hand on her chin, looking expectantly at Margaery.

                     “What?” Margaery asks, not making eye contact.

                     “You know what.”

                     “I’m following your advice. Moving on. Or did your little dalliance with Jon change your mind?”

                     Ygritte sits back in her seat, pulling away from Margaery defensively. “That was nothing.”

                     Margaery rolls her eyes. “You were totally screwing him back there.”

                     “So? That doesn’t mean anything.”

                     “Mmmhmm.”

                     Margaery wouldn’t hide her disapproval from Ygritte, but she wouldn’t judge her either. Jon, kind as he was, didn’t deserve someone as loyal as Ygritte. She would make sure he understood that. Ultimately, though, it was Ygritte’s choice. If she wanted to have angry sex with Jon and further convolute their relationship, that was her choice.

                     From the landing, it was a short drive to HighGarden. They took two cars: Garlan, Ygritte, Nymeria, and Margaery in one, everyone else in the rest. Garlan calls Leonette on the way. He tells her they got back safely and he’s going to Grandmother’s house before coming home. He asks her if she needs anything, if she has any cravings. Listening to him tell her he loves her as he says goodbye feels like a violation of privacy.

                     After a few moments of silence, Margaery asks. “Does she know?”

                     “She knows I was in Dorne,” he says.

                     She couldn’t imagine sweet, gentle Leonette angry that Garlan didn’t tell her everything when the lives of his family were at risk. Nevertheless, Margaery takes his hand and says, “When you get home, tell her everything. And tell her I can’t wait to see the baby bump.”

                     Garlan squeezes her hand and smiles. “I will Margaery.”

                     It’s nearly nighttime when they arrive to the gates of Olenna Tyrell’s High Garden home. Growing up, the mansion, with its personal gardens and private ponds, felt like a castle. Coming home never felt sweeter.

                     As the cars roll to a stop Olenna wades over. Margaery unbuckles and gets out quickly. She rushes to her grandmother, stoops down and holds her tight.

                     Olenna strokes her hair as she hugs her tight. “You’re home, sweet girl. You’re safe.”

                     Margaery closes her eyes. She breathes deep. She never imagined how wonderful the smell of lavender and aloe could be. “I’ve missed you,” she murmurs.

                     A delicate hand presses against her shoulder. She lets go of her grandmother and goes to her mother. Her hair has added a few more greys since Margaery last saw her. Her mother squeezes her with more strength than Margaery had felt before, rubbing soothing circles on her back. “It will be okay Margaery. We love you so much. Don’t scare us like that again.”

                     Margaery bites her tongue to hold back the tears. Despite the intimacy of the moment, she’s acutely aware of their guests watching her.

                     She pulls back to look at her mother’s relieved smile. “Mother I’m sorry. I’m so sorry-”

                     Her mother reaches out and brushes her cheek. “Ssshhh. It’s okay. We can speak of those things later.”

                     Margaery shuts her eyes again and leans in to her mother’s touch.

                     Olenna clears her throat, getting everyone’s attention. “Garlan,when you mentioned guests you could have said the entire Martell brood was coming.”

                     “I did grandmother,” Garlan says.

                     “You said Oberyn and his daughters. You did not mention they were a swarm and his what? Nephew? Son?”

                     “Nephew,” Quentyn says.

                     Olenna sighs. “I’m too old for this.”

                     “Surely you’re not. You look lovely as ever,” Oberyn compliments, grabbing a bag.

                     “Useless as that comment was, at least your mind’s not. Do your lazy daughters expect me to carry these bag on my broken hip?” Olenna asks. “You, what’s your name?”

                     “Obara,” Obara says.

                     “Well Barbara, don’t just stand there. If you’re staying, you’re pulling your weight.” Olenna turns around. “Alerie, dear, set another room please. It appears we’ll have to have some bunking.”

                     Margaery’s mother hugs her one last time and leads the Martells inside.          

                     Olenna places her hand against the small of Margaery’s back and guides her inside. “Come along. We have much to discuss.”

                     They go to a small waiting room. Olenna locks the door. Margaery helps her sit down.

                     “I’m getting too old for this drama.” She pauses for a moment then sighs, “Margaery, we’re in quite a hole.”

                     “I’m going to fix it Grandmother. I have a plan,” Margaery assures her.

                     “As did I. Now that you’ve sold yourself to that blasted Viper, we’ll have to adjust.”

                     “Oberyn has been kind. Honest. They want to help me.”

                     “They see an opportunity, my rose.”

                     “As do I. There was no need to involve the Starks,” she adds bitterly.

                     “If it weren’t for them, we’d think you were being held captive across the Narrow Sea.”

                     “I have Oberyn and-”

                     “No, they have your sweet little head on a platter. You enjoyed entangling yourself with the first two mafias, so you went and found a third?” Olenna scoffs.

                     “They were honest with me. Besides, they are not a mafia; they’re like a peace keeping force or militia. Either way, I trust them more than Sansa.” Margaery can hear the hollowness in her words.

                     “That is a mistake. Oberyn Martell is as trustworthy as his namesake. I should know after all those political alliances he wiggled out of.”

                     “I wouldn’t. You never mentioned him,” Margaery taps her fingers against her leg.

                     Olenna sighs. “Because he was never an issue. Regardless, I suppose we should use his resources while they are available.”

                     Margaery thinks of the question that has been dogging her since she found Garlan. “Did you know, Grandmother? That the Starks may have survived?”

                     Olenna laughs, but stops when she sees the sincerity in Margaery’s big brown eyes. She reaches out cups Margaery’s cheek. “There were rumors. Of course, anyone in their right mind, such as myself, was smart enough to look the other way.  None of us needed violence or harassment that a war with the Lannisters promised. Instigating the Stark situation would have been poor politics.”

                     “But did you know?” Margaery repeats.

                     “If I had known that girl was a Stark, do you think I would have hid the truth from you?”

                     Margaery looks down at her grandmother’s hand as her thumb strokes Margaery’s cheek. She would have, Margaery knows. If it was for Margaery’s safety, she would have set Sansa up with her herself.

                     “I didn’t know, Margaery. That said, I’m glad she was,” Olenna withdraws her hand as Margaery’s eyes shoot up.

                     “If she had been anyone else, that little monster would have had free reign to do gods know what to you. Actually, Sansa probably knows what. Perhaps you can chat with her about it when she arrives. Nevertheless, she kept you from having to endure that. You should thank her for that, if nothing else.” Olenna chides.

                     “I had Joffrey under control. He was wrapped around my finger before she went and murdered him. She killed him, Grandmother.”

                     “You did a marvelous job, I’m sure, but Cersei is not one to be trifled with. You saw what happens when someone messes with Cersei Lannister.”

                     “I was screwed over because Sansa messed with Cersei. She didn’t have any inclination toward me until the Starks fucked me over!” Margaery tries to keep her voice low to not attract any nosy listeners.

                     “It could have been much worse had her attention been on you rather than Jon Snow.”

                     Margaery scoffs and gets up. “Loras is in jail for a crime he didn’t commit, his boyfriend is dead, I’m on the run, and you think it could have been worse?”

                     “It’s an unfortunate situation, but I prefer my grandchildren alive rather than buried under the Sept.”

                     Margaery clenches her jaw. “I’ve had a long day of travel. I’m going to rest.”

                     Olenna nods. “That’s a good idea. We can discuss our next move tomorrow. You’re old room is set up.”

                     “Thank you. Good night grandmother.” She stops at the doorway and turns around. She takes a deep breath and says, “I love you.”

                     “I love you too, my little rose.”

                     As she makes her way to her room, she passes by another guest room with an open door.

                     “Margaery wait!” Jon calls.

                     Against her better judgement, Margaery stops. Jon comes out of the room. He really does look strange with a buzzcut and no facial hair. Not ugly, but… strange.

                     “What do you want?” She crosses her arms over her chest.

                     “I’m sorry about how everything went down. It shouldn’t have happened like that. And Renly deserved better. Sansa wanted-”

                     “Whatever Sansa wants, she can tell me when she arrives.” Margaery snaps. He’s the last person she wants to talk about her with. Assuming he’s finished, Margaery starts again.

                     “Wait!”

                     She spins around and pinches the bridge of her nose. All she wants is to sleep. “What could you possibly want Jon?!”

                     “It’s just Ygritte-” Margaery sighs dramatically, but he continues “-can you talk to her for me?”

                     “Why don’t you talk to her yourself?”

                     “I was going to, but then she jumped me and… well you heard…” Jon rubs the back of his neck awkwardly.

                     “And I regret every second of that.” Margaery assures him.

                     “Could you ask her where we stand? I mean, I thought that meant we were okay, but she hasn’t said a word to me since. And she keeps avoiding me every time I approach her.”

                     “Jon, I’m not your messenger. Maybe she needs some time to figure things out herself, alright. Let her be and if she wants let her move on. You don’t deserve shit from her.”

                     Jon nods solemnly.

                     “And stop thinking with your dick. If you have the opportunity to talk, use it to actually talk rather than fuck for once,” she adds.

                     She makes her way to her room and shuts the door behind her. She throws herself into bed and is out within minutes.

                     She slowly blinks as the dawn sunlight sneaks through the blinds. Wanting to have time to herself before seeing everyone else, Margaery decides to begin her day early. She goes straight to the shower. The steaming water releases the tension her stiff muscles and she takes her time to think of nothing. The last time she’d used this shower was her senior year. The bathroom still has the same brand of soap, the same conditioner, the same shampoo, even the same towel she had last used if she remembers correctly.

                     She changes into a tank top and her old high school sweatpants, which are a little more snug than the used to be.

                     Oberyn is already in the kitchen by the time Margaery gets downstairs.

                     “Early riser?” Margaery asks. She picks up the pot of freshly brewed coffee and pours herself a cup.

                     “This is sleeping in for me. Usually I’d have taken a jog by now, but your grandmother insists I wait a little longer.” Oberyn takes a gulp of his steaming coffee.

                     A knock at the front door interrupts their conversation. Margaery walks to the edge of the kitchen but stops when she hears the door open.

                     “It’s about time you got here.” Olenna scolds whomever is at the door.

                     “I would have been here sooner but I had an important phone call that will impact us,” says a voice Margaery had been dreading to hear again.

                     “She’s already awake, so come in. Keep that- blasted beast! That thing is going to be the death of me,” Olenna curses as the familiar scratch of claws scrape across the marble floor.

                     Lady darts into the kitchen. She stops and wags her tail before charging at Margaery. She screeches to a halt when Margaery holds out her hand. Anxious as Margaery feels, she still finds some amusement in the look of shock on Oberyn’s face.

                     “That is one big dog,” he mutters and pours himself another cup of coffee.

                     Margaery walks past Lady and toward the living room.

                     As she walks, Olenna’s voice grows louder. “Take that ridiculous mask off. This will be hard enough without you looking like a clown.”

                     Around the corner, Alayne holds a blond wig in one hand a fleshy looking mask in the other. She looks tired. Margaery’s chest clenches. Weeks of not seeing her, and Margaery feels torn between the desire to hug her and slap her. She does neither.

                     Sansa opens her mouth to rebut Olenna, but snaps it shut the moment she sees Margaery.

                     “Don’t tell me it’s that hard to come up with a comeback for an old hag such as myself,” Olenna says. Her voice trails off when she sees Sansa staring behind her.

                     For a moment, it’s as though all the air in the room has been sucked into a vacuum. Alayne takes slow, measured steps toward Margaery. Margaery, for her part, will not let herself be the one to back down or walk away. This is her home. Sansa is the stranger here.

                     She stops a foot away from Margaery. Unsure what she should do, she fidgets in place. “Hello, Margaery.”

                     Margaery stares  at her long enough for Alayne to know she is not welcome. With a flourish of a spin, she returns to the kitchen, once more ignoring the dog begging for attention as much as her owner.


	26. Details, details

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So two things: One, this is an emotional rollercoaster and really tries to delve into Margaery's conflicting emotions, so be prepared for feeling whiplash. 
> 
> Two, Let me know if this chapter sucks because I'm not sure how I feel about the back and forth and whether it does Margaery's character properly.

Olenna herds everyone into the living room. Alayne glances at Oberyn before getting up. She unzips a bag and pulls out a leather garment. She holds it out to Margaery. “Here. I got it for your birthday. To replace your old one.”

                     Margaery snubs her nose at the black, pristine jacket. “Black’s not my color.”

                     Alayne stares at her, refusing to accept the answer. Margaery looks anywhere but at her…whatever Sansa was.

                     Slowly everyone comes in. Quentyn, Nymeria and Tyene sit on the couch beside Oberyn. Obara chooses to stand at Margaery’s side. Ygritte pulls up a chair to sit next Margaery. Jon sits in the armchair. Lady jumps onto his knees and Jon rubs her cheeks.  Eventually Sansa goes back to her seat.

                     “Get that hairy scoundrel out of my chair. And keep the beast off the furniture or she will stay outside,” Olenna declares. Jon scurries out of her chair.

                     “Where’s Karstark?” he asks.

                     “He’ll be here this afternoon. I drove through the night,” Alayne says. She flicks her eyes to Margaery.

                     “I believe introductions are in order,” Oberyn stands up and comes to Sansa. He walks with the confidence of a man who knows everything about an unsuspecting target. Sansa doesn’t blink. “Oberyn Martell. Your father knew me as the Red Viper.”

                     “It appears as though you know who I am then,” Sansa says, shaking Oberyn’s outstretched hand.

                     “Do we?” Obara step in. “You were Sansa Stark, then you were Alayne Stone, which is it now?”

                     “Obara, don’t turn our new friend into a foe. The Stark family has never been an enemy of Dorne,” Oberyn scolds.

                     Even though Margaery knows the show was only to impress her, she can’t help but at least appreciate that someone is taking her side. 

                     “Yes, yes, we all know each other now. Let’s hammer out the details of our little alliance before I disintegrate to dust,” Olenna says.

                     “There is something I need to discuss with Jon first, Mrs. Tyrell,” Sansa mutters.

                     “If we’re to be partners, dear girl, we shan’t keep secrets. Come now, spit it out,” Olenna urges.

                     Sansa looks at Jon, then Margaery. Margaery wishes more than anything she would stop pinning her with those bottomless blues. “As you know, my sister has been in the North in my place, making plans with my associates to take out Cersei.”

                     Margaery catches on to hesitation as Alayne bites her lip. “They’ve been meeting just south of the wall. Jon you know the place. They were driving back to the compound after scouting some weapons and were…attacked. They were targeting my sister’s car. She made it out okay, but one of my most trusted advisors is badly injured. Her friend is also injured, though he should heal quickly.” Alayne took a breath and let the information sink in. “I think Cersei knows who I am.”

                     “How could she? We’ve been more careful with your identity than anyone else’s. There had to be a traitor.” Jon thinks. “I’d bet my life it was Bolton.”

                     Sansa shakes her head. “Roose Bolton is dead. He died in the incident.”

                     The room quiets. No one knows what to think, let alone what to say.

                     Finally Oberyn speaks up. “I think our alliance is simple. We kill Cersei Lannister and end the Lannister tyranny before she can use her knowledge against us.”

                     “Our concern is my brother first,” Margaery argues. “We had a deal.”

                     “I have not forgotten. We are here to amend it, are we not?” Oberyn shrugs.

                     Margaery stands up and goes to her grandmother. “Grandmother, we don’t need the Starks. Nothing good can come of working with them. Oberyn and I had a plan. We were going to expose Cersei and let the people decide her fate.”

                     “Sometimes we need to get our hands dirty, Margaery. The Starks have access to resources that will help us end the Lannister problem. And Loras will come out fine.” Olenna counsels.

                     “Once Cersei is gone, your brother shall be free and I will honor the rest of our deal,” Oberyn says. Margaery glares at him, knowing he says too much to gain an upper hand with the Starks.

                     “Loras is their hostage. Should anything happen to Cersei, he will suffer for it. If anything happens to my brother I will hold you responsible.”

                     “Margaery-” Obara says at the same time Alayne says, “She’s right.”

                     Everyone looks at Alayne. “Jaime Lannister will do anything for his sister. Petyr says he is not involved with the mafia’s dirty work, but I’m not so sure. We will get Loras, and then we will worry about Cersei.”

                     Olenna nods in agreement. “What do you need then Sansa?”

                     The name still sounds like poison to Margaery’s ears.

                     “A safe base here is all.”

                     Oberyn nods his assent.

                     “Very well,” Sansa says. “We will work out the details once I speak with my man on the inside.”

                     “Meanwhile, Ms. Tyrell has an article to publish,” Oberyn adds. Obara smiles at her.

                     Alayne shakes her head. “No. It’s too dangerous.”

                     “You are making plans to break a man out of a high security prison, and yet writing an article is too dangerous? Have you had your head checked lately Ms. Stark?” Obara laughs.

                     “Right now Cersei is distracted. Bronn says she hasn’t spoken of Margaery in days. I’m not going to shove her back into the Lion’s Den with nothing to gain. It takes tact.” Sansa says to Margaery.

                     “Think of it as a diversion then. I’ve played live bait before, have I not?” Margaery retorts. “I have to get my files. My computer was at Jon’s apartment when…when it happened. Jorah Mormont has a copy of my files.”

                     “And Doran has agreed to get them for us,” Oberyn says.

                     “It’s unnecessary. Margaery doesn’t need to be involved at all.” Alayne argues, her temper flaring.

                     “It will help us,” Obara argues.

                     “We don’t need that help. It’s cornering a vicious dog. She will lash out and someone will get hurt,” Alayne’s voice rises, sounding like she did when she was dealing with bad employees.

                     “That’s a sacrifice all of us here are willing to make,” Oberyn points around the room.

                     “It’s not one that I am,” Alayne argues.

                     “Fortunately, it’s not yours to make. I want my story published,” Margaery says. “You may control everything else, but not that.”

                     “It was our agreement, Ms. Stark. We shall honor it,” Oberyn folds his hands in his lap.

                     “And what was the rest of that deal? Let’s hear it Red Viper. As Olenna said, no use in keeping secrets now,” Sansa leans back, arms crossed. Her fingers tap against the crook in her elbow.

                     Margaery scoffs. “You want to speak of secrets? You’re the queen of them. Let’s hear more of yours Sansa? How did you choose your name? Stick paper in a hat and draw it out?”

                     Slowly, Sansa gets up and comes to Margaery. “We can talk about it. Whatever you want to know, I’ll tell you I swear. Alone. Please Margie,” Alayne begs.

                     This close. Margaery is this close to giving in. It’s Alayne. It’s her girlfriend, not some mobster. Give her a chance.

                     “Whatever you have to say can be said here.” The voice doesn’t sound like her own. It’s as though her lips move of their own accord.

                     “Margaery-”

                     “Let it be Sansa,” Jon advises.

                     Sansa looks over her shoulder. There’s something subtle in the way they communicate. Sansa gets up. “Fine. Do we have our deal?”

                     “I agree. What about you Tyrells?” Oberyn asks.

                     Olenna thinks. “Deal. Let’s get you settled in Sansa.”

                     Free to go, Margaery finds her shoes and goes outside. She walks through her grandmother’s garden, past the pond, and into the garden her grandmother had planted for her grandkids. She wanders until she finds a rose bush, blooming with pink roses. The bush beside it has red-tipped yellow roses. Those used to be her favorite.

                     She plucks a rose from the bush. She touches the thorns. The slightest increase in pressure would break the skin. Her father had taught her how to delicately avoid the thorns.

                     _“Each rose has dozens.  And a dozen roses will have dozens of dozens. No matter how beautiful it looks, it can hurt. That’s why we have to be careful Margaery. Don’t want my little flower hurting herself with mommy’s flower.”_

                     Alayne was like a rose. Her own rose, with dozens of thorns she couldn’t avoid touching. And still she wanted to touch more. She wishes Alayne was a lily. Simple. Unlikely to hurt her.

                     Time and space did nothing to help her. One plea for her to talk sent her reeling, seeking comfort in childish delights.

                     Margaery laughs at herself. Some reporter she’s turning out to be. Perhaps she should have been a poet with her ridiculous notions of metaphors.

                     The bushes rustle as Ygritte makes her way through the garden. “Sweet flowers! They look like a bad ass hippy tie dye or something.”

                     “That’s one way to put it,” Margaery twirls the rose in her fingers.

                     “You ran out of there pretty fast,” Ygritte sits beside her. “Obara and Sansa started going at it after you left.”

                     “About what?” Margaery asks.

                     “I’m not really sure what. It seemed to be about you, but also not about you. I think they’re both jealous of each other because of you.”

                     “Another thing that’s my fault,” Margaery mutters.

                     “Nah. They’re just immature babies. Like Jon. An immature, sweet, brave, infuriating, dumb baby.”

                     Margaery pursed her lips. “Do you want to talk about him?”

                     “Not really. I think if I do, it’s going to make things more complicated.”

                     “Darling, you joined the mile-high club with him yesterday. You’re beyond complicated,” Margaery sets down the rose.

                     “And you’re not?” Ygritte challenges. “Sorry. I just…I don’t know what to do.” She lays her head on Margaery’s shoulder. Margaery pats her head and moves her wild mane away from her mouth. It’s starting to turn back to red already. Her own hair is fading at a slower pace.

                     “You love him,” Margaery says. “He’s a good guy, he’s just been caught up in something beyond him. Do you forgive him?”

                     Ygritte nods her head against Margaery’s shoulder.

                     “Then talk to him. All you two do is fight and fuck. Maybe you should fight, talk, then fuck.”

                     Ygritte sits up. “What about you?”

                     “What about me?” Margaery shrugs.

                     “I saw the way you looked at her. You still have feelings for her,” Ygritte rubs her shoulder.

                     “I don’t want to,” Margaery confides. “Her damn hair is fading from black to red. Sansa Stark is replacing Alayne and all I can think of is how I miss her, Ygritte. But she’s not coming back, and Sansa used me.”

                     “We know it’s more complicated that that.”

                     “Is it? Maybe for Jon it is. He wasn’t the mastermind. He didn’t try to hide his name and make a fool of you and your work. But Sansa…” Margaery shakes her head. The woman who had paraded around as Alayne Stone was nothing but a lying murderer to her.

                     “Take your own advice. Give her a chance to talk. Jon says-”

                     Margaery gives her a sharp look. “Jon says? You’ve got to be kidding me. He put you up to this, didn’t he?”

                     Ygritte nods her head. “And it’s true. You need to talk if you’re going to be working with her.”

                     “I’m not working with her. The moment Loras is free, we’re gone. You can choose to do as you like, but I’m on the first plane out of Westeros,” Margaery gets up and brushes the dirt off her pants.

                     “Don’t be so damn pig-headed Marge! Just fucking talk to her!” Ygritte yells as Margaery walks off.

                     Before she makes it back inside, Obara waves her down. “Margaery! Where have you been?”

                     “Just in the gardens. Thinking.”

                     “Would you like to go into town? I would love to try that bakery you told me about,” Obara comes closer.

                     “I’d love to, but I have some things to settle here first. I need to make a proper wardrobe, buy some hygiene products,…”

                     “Can I come? I can tell you how cute you look in your outfits,” Obara’s hand brushes against her own.

                     Even though this is a trip she’d rather take alone, Margaery smiles and says “Sure. I just need to grab a few things.”

                     Who needed therapy when there were shopping trips? Margaery took Obara to several of her favorite stores. She bought a few dresses, some shirts and tank tops, sandals for the weather. Obara was the ideal shopping partner. Several compliments and a suggestion for a new pair of sunglasses. Best of all, it helped Margaery put her racing thoughts to rest.

                     “You looked S-E-X-Y in that halter top,” Obara says. “I still think you should have gotten it.”

                     “It was a cute top. But I think I did pretty well for myself,” Margaery pulls into the Tyrell driveway. They spent the entire day out shopping.

                     “I’d say. I can’t remember the last time I went shopping and actually had fun,” Obara sighs.

                     “You just haven’t hit the right places,” she turns off the car engine.

                     “Or maybe I haven’t gone with the right people,” Obara murmurs.

                     It brings Margaery to a halt. That inexplicable rush of guilt floods her senses again, driving her to say. “Obara, I do hope I haven’t sent you the wrong message. I enjoy your company and I think we could be good friends. I don’t have romantic intentions for you though.”

                     Obara plasters a smile to her face. “You’re still hung up on Sansa. You need to move on. Forget about her. I like you Margaery. I’m not about to lose an opportunity with a prize such as yourself. I don’t like to wait.”

                     Margaery isn’t sure that’s the truth. All the happiness and joy she felt moments ago leaves her. It’s a warning. There’s something startling in Obara’s reaction. It’s clear she won’t take no for an answer. Part of Margaery finds the lack of concern for her desires repulsive, and yet another part relishes in the ambition it shows.

                     Still, it was a clear warning.  Not for her, but for Alayne. And Margaery’s first instinct is tell Obara that it won’t happen, that she can’t move on. Instead, she tells the Dornish woman to go inside, that she can carry her bags in.

                     “Are you sure?”Obara double checks.

                     “Yes. They’re light and I’m only going to my room,” Margaery kicks the door shut behind her.

                     “Think about what I said, Tyrell. I could make you happier than she ever could,” Obara winks.

                     _No one could make me as happy as she did._

                     Sure Alayne had been rough around the edges, but she was also soft. She only shared that softness with Margaery. The knitting, the quiet nights snuggling, the romantic whispers, the way she submitted to Margaery’s touch. She opened up to her. In her own way, she shared emotional tid bits that mattered, and slowly revealed her insecurities, even if she didn’t always outright say them.

                     Underneath the hard exterior were layers of kindness and confidence and anger and love. What for, Margaery wasn’t sure anymore. Surely not herself. But for the family she lost. Or that Sansa lost. The one she lied about and used against Margaery. The one that reminded Margaery that just because Sansa was close by meant nothing. Sansa was nothing to her.

                     Obara was hard outside and inside. She was an open book about her family, but shared nothing about herself: her goals, her favorite movies or books or colors. She was the inverse of Alayne.

                     The moment Margaery came to this realization, her hand twisted the doorknob. Sansa stood in the middle of the room, placing a handful of dirty clothes into a neat pile. She looks over her shoulder and opens her mouth to speak.

                     “This is my room,” Margaery says first. “You should not be in here.”

                     “Olenna said I needed to sleep in here. There wasn’t anywhere else to go. Not with Jon and Ygritte sharing a bed already and Karstark bunking with Quentyn,” Sansa plays with the hem of her shirt.

                     Margaery clenches her jaw. There’s no use in arguing with Olenna right now. She’s too tired to listen to reason right now.  Margaery drops her bags and digs out a fresh pair of underwear from her suitcase along with an oversized shirt and shorts. She goes down the hall and slams the door shut behind her.

                     When she returns, Sansa has positioned herself at the far end of the bed. If she chose to, Margaery would have the vast majority of her bed with her bedmate confined to the smallest of corners.  It’s not far enough away.

She grabs two pillows from the bed, startling Sansa into sittin up. She stomps out of them room and returns with an armful of blankets.

                     “Margaery what are you-” Sansa stops herself as Margaery spreads two blankets on the floor. On top of them, she puts her two pillows.

                     “Babe, you’re going to hurt your back like that. Get in the bed. I won’t touch you or even look at you, I swear it. Just get in the bed.”

                     Margaery turns off the light and covers herself with the blankets. She stares straight up at the ceiling, because she knows if she turns her head, she’ll see Sansa staring back at her. Eyes shaded by the dark of the room. Lips curved into a small frown because Margaery is acting childish. But that doesn’t matter, not in the state of mind Margaery is in. It would be too familiar, too close to what she can feel herself aching for.

                     Despite the discomfort and raging thoughts, she eventually fades into sleep. Just before it overcomes her, she hears Alayne murmur, “Do you really hate me that much, Margaery?”

                     “I don’t hate you, sweetling. Far from it,” some distortion of her voice utters.


	27. Torn In the Middle

                      Until Doran sends her files, she has nothing to do. She begs her grandmother to let her sit in on their meetings and planning for freeing Loras, but Olenna insists that the she needn’t worry about it. Focus on Cersei. It leads her in a roundabout.

                     Alayne gives her wistful looks, as though she wants to defend her right to be present, but she never speaks up. Deep down, Margaery knows she’s just as determined to keep her out of any potential harm as Olenna is. It frustrates her to no end.

                     Despite the size of her grandmother’s home, it’s impossible to avoid anyone. She turns a corner and Alayne is sitting and talking quietly with Jon. She comes to the kitchen for food and Alayne is pouring a bowl of food for Lady. She knocks on the bloody bathroom door and Alayne walks out. Sleeping in the same room isn’t nearly as bad as those moments.

                     With her free time, Margaery watches the news more. Her disappearance is fading from the news cycle. The news stations still show clips of Loras’s trial, but they mention Margaery and Ygritte less. Her father focuses his air time solely on Renly, mentioning her as little as possible. Reward ads stop running. Until something new happens, she is old news. Just the way she likes it.

                     She also begins working out. The last time she’d done a serious workout regiment was senior year spring break. Ygritte makes the initial offer.

                     “Hey want to come jogging with me? Your grandma has some sick trails and I want to check them out.”

                     Margaery groaned. “I hate running. You know that.”

                     Ygritte dragged her off the couch. “Come on. I’m supposed to be the lazy one, not you. Besides, what else have you got to do?”

                     “Gah. Fine,” Margaery changed clothes and came back out. Nymeria and Obara had joined Ygritte by the door waiting for Margaery.

                     The Sand sisters each had well-toned arms and legs. They each wore just sports bras and shorts. Obara’s abs were more defined than Nymeria’s, which Margaery found arousing. Alayne had abs, but they weren’t necessarily defined. She mentally kicked herself for comparing them. That was the last thing she should be thinking of.

                     “Hey Margaery! Nymeria and I were going to join you two on your run, if you don’t mind,” Obara says.

                     “You can, but it may just be the three of you. I doubt I can keep up with the three of you,” Margaery tried to get herself out of working out.

                     “Don’t worry about it. I don’t mind slowing down a little for you,” Obara grinned.

                     *********************

                     The third day running, Margaery’s legs still burn by the time they make it back to the house.

                     She bends over panting when she makes it back to the house.

                     “Not bad, Tyrell,” says Nymeria. “You almost beat the fifteen minute mark.”

                     “Great,” she breathes. Frickin’ fantastic.

                     Ygritte pats her back. “Once you get into a routine, it won’t be bad. Now I’m dying for some of that spaghetti.”

                     “You’re supposed to load on carbs before working out,” Obara says.

                     “So? It’s never betrayed me in the past,” Ygritte goes inside. The rest of them follow her.

                     Nymeria stops in front of the tv, blocking Karstark and Quentyn’s view of the monster truck rally at the Iron Isles. “Seriously? You two are such children.”

                     “Yeah, yeah, move your arse, sweet cheeks. We got a bet goin’,” Karstark maneuvers to look around her. As they continue bickering, Margaery goes to the kitchen to grab a water bottle.

                      Obara hands her one from the fridge. Her finger lingers against Margaery’s as she says, “You know, we can make more of a regiment for you. Add some crunches, do a little kick boxing. Things that will come in hand for self-defense.” She licks her lips, giving Margaery a once over.

                     The offer is tempting on several levels. Before she responds though, Lady butts her head between their hands, pushing Margaery away. She turns around and growls at Obara.

                     “Lady! Bad dog!” Margaery scolds. Lady ducks her head and cowers.

                     “What did she do?” Sansa comes into the kitchen, holding a plate.

                     Margaery stiffens. “Nothing. The problem is solved.”

                     Everytime she’s been near Sansa since the first night has been strained. She goes to bed early to avoid talking to her. She wakes up early for the same reason. Fortunately, there’s a lot of ground to cover in her grandmother’s house. It makes avoiding people easy.

                     It does not help avoid dogs. As much as Sansa has backed off, Lady has doubled her efforts in trying to attract Margaery’s attention. Jumping in her lap. Following her around the house. Eating Ygritte’s food (although that may be more Ygritte’s fault).

                     The dog pads over to Sansa and sits. Sansa scratches behind her ears.

                     Obara leans on the countertop. “That mangy mutt needs to stay out of the kitchen. It’s disgusting having a dog lick off of chairs and eat off the ground. ”

                     “And it’s disgusting to have your sweat soaked arms all over the countertop. I wasn’t complaining though. I figured that was simply the in-etiquette of Dorne.”

                     The smile on Obara’s face disappears. “It’s clear to see the bitch gets her manners from her dog.”

                     Sansa leaves Lady and braces herself up on her arms across the island from Obara. Her muscles strain, as if flexing. “Glad you noticed. My dog does have far superior manners to snake eaters.”

                     Ygritte comes back into the kitchen. “Hey what’s going on here?”

                     “Oh, the pasty ghost here wants to play games,” Obara rounds the counter. “I don’t think she’ll like it when her head ends up in her ass.”

                     Sansa towers over her by a good six inches. She glares down at her. “I hope it doesn’t end up like that permanently, like yours is.”

                     Margaery yanks Alayne back. “Quit acting like an ass.”

                     Ygritte corners off Obara right as Nymeria, Jon, and Karstark come in.

                     “I’m acting like an ass? She fucking started it,” Alayne argues. She doesn’t try to force herself from Margaery’s touch. If anything, she’s leaning into it. Margaery quickly releases her.

                     “You’re both being asses. Does that make you happy?”

                     Oberyn comes in and immediately Obara disentangles herself from the rucus. Obaeryn, however, pays no mind to her.

                     “Margaery, Doran sent the files. Your work awaits you,” he grins.

                     “Thank you,” she says. “I’ll get to them after my shower.”

                     “As you please. This is your place of expertise,” he looks to his daughters and nephew. “You three, come with me. We have plans to discuss. As I’m sure Ms. Stark does with her people.”

                     Sansa glares at him as he walks by. “Damn Dornish.”

                     Margaery leaves as well to take her shower. It’s short, but when she returns, everyone has scattered their different ways. With some snacks and a water bottle in hand, she takes her things to her grandmother’s study.

                     She spends the rest of the day editing her articles and verifying her facts. The first couple were ready to publish by the time Jorah pulled them, so they needed little attention. Still, she was no longer writing for the sake of news, but for the sake of her brother. Objectivity and lack of bias were not her top priorities anymore.

                     It’s well past dusk when there’s a knock on the door frame. It feels like it’s the first time in hours that she’s looked away from the computer screen. She blinks and rubs her eyes, unable to see beyond the splotches of light.

                     When her vision returns, Jon is standing far closer than she expected him to be. With his five o‘clock shadow and growing fuzz, he’s starting to look more like his old self. “Jon? What are you doing here?”

                     “Thought I’d come check on ya,” he says. “You’ve been in here for hours.”

                     Margaery shrugs and looks glances at her articles. “I’ve been working.”

                     Jon sits on the little wooden stool in the corner. “Don’t stress yourself too much over it. Teaching Cersei a lesson isn’t worth your sanity.”

                     “Loras’s safety is,” she murmurs.

                     “We’ll get him back. Leave that to me and Obara,” he says.

                     “You two are going in?”

                     Jon nods. “Martell and the girls all wanted to come, but since it’s a two man job, they drew straws. She was the winner.”

                     “I’m sure you had your fingers crossed for her.” At this point, Margaery realizes she’s already forgiven him. Why or how it happened, she’s not sure. He never hurt her like he hurt Ygritte. Once Ygritte had forgiven him, there was nothing to hold against him.

                     “I did, actually. Especially over Quentyn.” he reasons.

                     “So you and Ygritte are officially together again?”

                     Jon sighs. “I don’t know what we are. I think we’re still in a similar situation to you and Sansa.”

                     “No. You’re not,” she responds. “Sansa and I are nothing.”

                     “Sorry. I just mean, we haven’t really talked about what happened. She’s snuck into my room and sucked me off a few times, and then she’s yelled at me a bit, but we haven’t you know, talked.”

                     Margaery shakes her. These two do not understand the concept of TMI. Then she remembers something. “I’m sorry for how I treated you the other night.”

                     Jon smiles sympathetically. “Don’t be. I knew you were in a mood and tried shoving my problems on you anyway.”

                     She calls him back as he walks out. “One more thing. You break her heart again, I will break your neck.”

                     “Got it,” he says.

                     She saves her files and shuts off the computer. For the first time, she feels as though she can talk to Sansa. Maybe then she can begin moving on.

                     Everyone except her grandmother, Sansa, and Obara crowd the dining room table to play poker. Ygritte sits across from Jon. She cranes her neck to look over his head. “Hey Marge. Want to be delt in? We can squeeze you in.”

                     Margaery shakes her head. “I’d hate to kick all your arses so early in the night,” she cocks her head.

                     Tyene shuffles and deals. “Too late anyway. You’ll have to wait til the next round.”

                     For once no one is watching TV. A small smile spreads across Margaery’s face. She can catch up on _Dunk and Egg_. She excuses herself off and goes to the living room

                     Her face drops when she sees that Obara has already layed claim to the TV. Obara turns her head and smiles. “Come sit, Margaery,” she raises a glass of wine, “I saved you Dorne’s best.”

                     The temptation for wine is too great. She sits next to her and gladly takes the glass.

                     “Your ex was eying it hard after downing a half glass of whiskey. Had to make sure she didn’t defile it with her putrid northern tastes.”

                     She winces at the comment, but disguises it as having swallowed too much wine at once. “What are you watching?”

                     “Just binge watching this little show I discovered a couple weeks ago. _Dunk and Egg_.”

                     Wine nearly spurts from her mouth. “ _Dunk and Egg_? That’s my favorite show!”

                     “Really?” Obara sits back. “Care to watch a few episodes with me then? I’d love some commentary from a die-hard.”

                     Halfway through the episode, while Margaery is explaining why Dunk is averse to doing a particular police task, Lady walks in.

                     “If that bitch is here, the other one can’t be far off,” Obara mutters.

                     Lady ignores the comment and hops on the couch in the space between Margaery and Obara. She plops her head on Margaery’s lap. On que, Alayne walks in. As Obara warned, she has a glass of wine with her. It takes a moment for her to decide where to sit.

                     “Get lost Stark,” Obara says. It sounds like both a command and a question.

                     Alayne ignores her and looks at her dog. “She misses you bad, you know.”

                     Margaery looks down at Lady. “Yeah, I know.” She rubs Lady’s back. The dog rolls over onto her side.

                     Obara starts the show again. Although the show is on, Margaery is vaguely aware that Alayne glances over every minute or so. She ceases her commentary on the show and just watches. Close to the end Obara’s fingers brush against Margaery’s hand. When Margaery doesn’t pull away, Obara clasps her hand over Margaery’s.

                     When Alayne looks back, she scoffs under her breath. “Desperate Sand-bather.”

                     “What was that Stark? Sounded like you were choking on your words,” Obara bites back.

                     Alayne whips her head around. “It’s just a little sad that you can’t seem to take the hint that she doesn’t want you the way you want her.”

                     Margaery tries to intervene before it blows out of control again, but Obara sneers. “Look in the mirror lately?”

                     Obara scoots closer. The proximity causes Lady to jump off the couch. She sits in front of Alayne as if protecting her. Her hand clenches over the top of Margaery’s.

                     Alayne glares at them. “You need to move your hand off her. Now.”

                     “She hasn’t told me to. Why should I?” Obara’s enjoying poking her, and Sansa thoughtlessly takes the bait.

                     “Because she doesn’t belong to you,” Alayne growls.

                     “I don’t belong to anyone,” Margaery interjects, but she’s been forgotten.

                     Obara hops up and comes to the chair. Sansa gets up to meet her and towers over her. “You can’t do anything about it. If I were fucking her, all you could do is stand there and mope. You’re not woman enough to take what you want.”              

                     Without warning, Sansa curls her fist and swings at Obara, connecting with her jaw and knocking her back a step.

                     “Alayne!” Margaery yells. Sansa looks at her with wide, turmoiled eyes. It provides Obara with an opening to tackle her to the ground. It becomes obvious that the alcohol has started taking a toll on Sansa. As Margaery tries to pull the women off each other, Alayne’s next punch misses and knocks Margaery on the chin.

                     They yell and scream. Obara yanks on Sansa’s hair and Sansa keeps missing with lefts and rights. Obara rears her knee back and drives it hard into Alayne’s groin. Alayne yelps in pain. She scratches Obara’s eyes, temporarily blinding her. The tactic fails as Obara wails back and lands shot just to the left of her nose. Oberyn, Karstark, Jon, and Nymeria rush in and pull girls off each other.

                     “What in Seven Hells is going on?!” Olenna yells.

                     Everyone turns toward her. Ygritte sneaks over to Margaery’s side. “You okay?” she whispers.

                     Margaery nods.

                     “I shall not be sharing my home with animals for gods know how long. I don’t give two shits about your personal problems. Start acting like you lot have brains inside those thick skulls.” Olenna goes to Oberyn. “Teach your daughter how to control herself.” She turns onto Margaery. “And get your girlfriend in a right state of mind. You’ve been acting like child and it’s time for you to grow up.”

                     The classic “She’s not my girlfriend” line lingers on her lips. She practices discretion and lets it go. She knows better than to argue with her grandmother in this state.

                     In all the chaos, she hadn’t noticed that Lady had made her way to her side. A low growl emanated from the dog.

                     Olenna’s neck snaps down faster than it should have for a woman her age. “And I’ve had just about enough of you. A night in backyard should teach you your place.”

                     “I think that might be a bit extreme,” Jon mutters.

                     Olenna turns her wrath on him? “Would you like to join her? You can shag her instead of the obnoxious angry moaning fest you’ve been having with the fireball. Anyone else a comment? Good. Margaery, fix up Jeyne and go to bed. The rest of you shut the hells up. We have work to do tomorrow.”

                     Jon takes Lady by the collar and gently leads her out. She whimpers and whines all the way. Sansa watches after her until she turns the corner, then turns her attention to Margaery. “I hope she knows that I know that she knows my name,” she smiles softly.

                     Margaery glares unamused. She looks at Obara. “Sorry about that.”

                     “Why should you be sorry? The cunt over there started it,” Obara points at Sansa.

                     “I started it? You narcissistic-” Sansa starts.

                     “Alayne stop. You’ve done enough tonight!” Margaery barks.

                     Alayne’s face hardens. She turns on her heel and leaves, along with the rest of the Sands and Ygritte.

                     Once they’re gone, Margaery sighs. “Those things you said were really messed up.”

                     “Just because she took it the wrong way…”

                     “You meant to provoke her and you did.”

                     Obara crosses her arms over her chest. “Someone needs to put her in her place.”

                     Margaery picks up her glass of wine. “That doesn’t need to be you.” She finishes the glass. “Thanks for the wine. Goodnight.”

                     “Margaery,” Obara calls out. She catches up to her.

                     Margaery stops. “What?”

                     “You can do better than her. Even if it’s not me. Don’t fall for her lies again.”

                     She swallows. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

                     Upstairs the door to her room is open. Margaery goes in and finds Sansa checking out her bruise in the mirror, dabbing it with an ice pack. Against her better judgement, Margaery goes over and says, “Give it here and sit.”

                     Alayne looks at her. The bump is swelling. Her eye is only half open from the size of the mark. She gives her the ice pack and sits on the edge of the bed. Margaery bends over her and finds the exact necessary angle for the ice pack. “Hold it exactly like that.” She notices the long cut from Obara’s nails on her arm. She goes to the bathroom and wets a washcloth and grabs a band-aid.

                     She comes back and cleans the scratch. Sansa hisses. Margaery puts the band-aid on.

                     “Thank you,” Sansa says.

                     Margaery’s little floor nest is strewn around. She crouches down to straighten it. “Grandmother said to fix you up.”

                     “Margaery. Marge, look at me,” Alayne asks softly.

                     Margaery looks up at her. She looks like a cyclops from down there. “I’m looking.”

                     “Talk to me. Or let me talk,” Alayne scoots on the bed to offer her a place to sit.

                     “About what? How you attacked Obara down there? Or is there another thing you’ve been keeping from me?”

                     Margaery bucks up for another argument. What else could this lead to?

                     Instead, Sansa, drops her head into her hands. “I know what you’re trying to do. I’m not going to let you push me away again. I’ve come too far for that. I just want to talk, babe.”

                     “I’m not your babe.” She takes a breath and pushes the door shut. “Fine, talk. How did this mafia crap begin?”

                     “It never went away. After…After my family died, Petyr took in me and Arya. Jon wanted to stay with us. He was always like an older brother. Always got along better with Arya.” She shifts on the bed closer to Margaery. “He handled the accounts for father. Helped him with loan sharking and calling in debts from southerners. Told father when more than a phone call from the local middle man was needed.”

                     “Course,” Margaery mumbles.

                     “It wasn’t like that. He did what he had to,” Sansa defends her father. Her eyes beg Margaery to understand.

                     She doesn’t want to understand. “Just as you’ve done what you had to, right?” she mocks.

                     “He was a good man. I try to be like him. Fair. Just. Petyr took us to the Vale. He had his secretaries care for Arya and I while we grew up. Meanwhile, he grew his own businesses and made new friends for us. Kept the mafia barely breathing by maintaining alliances with those who had been loyal to my father and the mafia. Used those connections to slowly and quietly rebuild. Teaching me the art of business”

                     “Then, after I turned 20 he decided that it was time for me to get more involved. We traveled. Reintroduced ourselves to foreign drug cartels. They mocked us at first. Over time they saw how valuable a partner I could be. And how terrible a foe I was.”

                     “How many people have you had killed?” Margaery asks.

                     “I…I do what I have to for my people,” Sansa says in a robotic voice.

                     “Yes, I distinctly remember Renly coming back from Winterfell and telling me all about how the North was clamoring for Joffrey’s disfigured body on a pyre,” Margaery crosses her arms over her chest.

                     “The Lannisters are sick, vile people and Joffrey would have been the worst of them all. You don’t know what they’re capable of. I protected you from him.”

                     “Your protection cost Renly his life.”

                     Sansa leaps to her feet. She’s inches away from Margaery as she screams. “It’s not my fault! Do you realize if the Mountain had caught you, you would have been dead! If not dead, then tortured. You can ask your work out buddy how well that worked out for her aunt.” She takes a deep breath and backs up a step. “Fuck, I wasn’t even there. Brienne pulled the trigger of her own choice. Renly got in the way, his choice. That doesn’t mean it’s their fault either.”

                     “I’m done talking. Good night,” Margaery says curtly. She turns to shut off the light, but Sansa slips between her and the switch before she can flip it.

                     “We’re not done. Not until you tell me why it’s so important that I’m the one at fault.”

                     Margaery backs away a step. “I’m not doing this now.”

                     “You want so bad for me to be the reason Renly is dead. He was a friend to me too.”

                     Some friend she had been. He had died not even knowing the truth. Died in Margaery’s wild search for the truth. She locks her jaw as Sansa closes the gap between them, imposing her height over her.

                     “I just wanted to keep you safe and you’re the one who ran. How does that make me responsible for his death? How?”

                     Cersei had been Margaery’s idea. She should have done the story alone. He’d be alive then. Far away, happy with Loras. Margaery sniffles. “I can’t.”

                     “You can’t what?” Sansa bends down and looks her straight on.

                     “Because it’s my fault then.”

                     A sob breaks from her lips. Sansa blinks. “What?”

                     “He’s dead because of me! My story! My work! I put him in danger and now he’s gone!” Margaery crumples to the bed.

                     Her heart twists in guilt. All along her goal had been to bring justice to King’s Landing, and instead she’d brought strife to the people she loved. It was all her fault.

                     Alayne wraps her arms around Margaery’s back and pulls her tight to her body. Margaery struggles to pull back. Eventually she gives in and openly sobs into Alayne’s shoulder.

                     Alayne tucks her chin over Margaery’s head and rubs her back. “It's not your fault. Baby, it’s not your fault. I’m so sorry.”

                     “It is,” Margaery says. “He… wouldn’t have been involved if- if not for me.”

                     “He chose to work with you. He knew the risks and he wanted to help anyway, Marge. It’s who he was. A good guy with a good heart. He went after the Lannisters because he wanted to. He jumped in front of the bullet because he thought it was right. Sometimes there’s no fault. You just have to accept it and move on. It took me years to learn that, but sometimes you just have to accept it.”

                     They stay like that for what feels like hours. By the time she unwraps herself from Alayne’s arms, she’s exhausted. She moves to go to the floor, but Alayne holds her back. “Stay with me tonight. Please. I need you.”

                     It’s all so inviting. The comfortable bed. Familiar soft pillows and a familiar soft body with soothing words that she doesn’t believe for a single moment. She nods. Alayne picks up the pillows off the floor and puts them back on the bed. She turns out the lights as Margaery lays on the far side of the bed.

                     Margaery falls asleep faster than usual, but not before Alayne entwines their fingers for the night, a promise of the lie Margaery wants nothing more than to believe.

                      


	28. Bring My Brother Back

When she wakes the next morning, their hands were still laced together. Margaery flexes her hand and watches Alayne’s twitch beneath it. She sits up slowly to not wake the woman beside her. She grabs her phone off the nightstand and quietly leaves, closing the door behind her.

                     She’s only going to check the news, but a text message caught her eye. Other than her grandmother, she hadn’t used the phone to contact anyone. It was supposed to be untraceable.

                     She opens the text downstairs. “Little Rose, I was overjoyed to hear you had found safety amongst the sands of Dorne and have now returned to the flower bed. As promised, I have kept my nose to the ground on learning what I can of our Queen Bee. My little birds have told me that she shall be making a surprise visit to High Garden by the end of the week on her return from Sunspear. Your Grandmother has this message awaiting her as well. – The Spider.”

                     She shakes her head as she opens the backdoor and stepped outside. The man was a wonder. All of Westeros probably thought she was dead by now, and he’s figured out her phone number.

                     Before she can dwell on the thought too long, Lady jumps on her. Margaery manages to hold on to her phone, but barely.

                     “Down girl,” she commands.

                     Lady sits panting and wagging her tail. Her back has dried flower pedals all over it. Margaery turns to her grandmother’s flower bed. The flowers are flat and crushed. “You have a death wish.”

                     Margaery gets down to the ground. Lady takes it as permission to lick her face all over. In a way it was. She pushes the dog down, but scratches behind her ears. Lady’s tail wags faster. Margaery scratches down to her back and Lady lays down at her side, thrilled to have her attention once more.

                     “That’s a good girl,” Margaery murmurs. Lady settles down. She rolls on to her back, massive hindlegs dangling in the air. Again, Margaery pets her. “I’ve missed you too.”

                     The morning is bright and the birds tweet high form their perches. It’s the right place to think.

                     Obara’s words replay in her mind. “Don’t fall for her lies again.” What were the lies? After last night she could no longer tell herself Sansa didn’t care. Her confession felt like a load off her chest. She didn’t have to keep it to herself anymore. Still, after all the bullshit she put Margaery through for her job and keeping secrets, only to be keeping the world’s biggest secret for a year was something she couldn’t bring herself to forgive. She didn’t want to forgive. The wall was crumbling though. She could feel it.

                     There was no rectifying it, but perhaps she could make herself a bunker. Let Sansa in without letting her have the capacity to hurt her again. She would never let herself love anyone the way she loved Alayne. That only led heartbreak. She couldn’t put herself through that again.

                     “Beauty tamed the beast,” Obara smirks and sits down beside her.

                     Margaery moves her hand over so Obara can pet Lady as well. “She’s not so bad when she’s in a good mood.”

                     “Are you talking about Stark or her bitch?” Obara asks.

                     “Both,” Margaery pats Lady’s stomach. She looks at Obara. She’s wearing a sports bra and shorts, with a water bottle in hand and a mat by her side. “Early morning workout?”

                     “Yes. If you still wanted to go on a run we could. I just wanted to do some core training this morning. Rid myself of some frustration.” Obara gulps down some water.

                     “No thanks. Today is my off day,” Margaery says.

                     “How did things go with Stark last night?”

                     Margaery shrugs. “We talked.”

                     “About?”

                     “The mafia. Renly.”

                     “You didn’t trust her did you?” Obara brushes a strand of blonde hair from Margaery’s eyes, though Margaery looks at the ground.  

                     Margaery doesn’t answer. She doesn’t know what she trusts.

                     “Oh, Margaery,” Obara sighs. “The Starks are cold and rigid. No passion. For all their talk of honor, would an honorable woman lie to you about who she was and what she wanted for so long? Look into those lifeless eyes and you can’t tell the lie because she’s so used to lying.”

                     Margaery cocks her head. “And you are passionate and honest and forward?”

                     Obara laughs. “You said it. I assume you know the rescue mission will be going soon? I have some packing to do then.” She kisses Margaery’s cheek and draws a little spear on the side of her neck with her finger nail. “Whenever you’re ready, Tyrell, just say the word.”

                     She pushes herself up and flashes Margaery a smile. Margaery looks back to see her go and Ygritte come out. Ygritte looks at Obara as she walks past. She makes her way to Margaery and sits. Lady licks her hand before nuzzling her head into Margaery’s lap.

                     “You think those are real abs? Is it possible to get an ab implant?” Ygritte asks.

                     “Have you seen her running with us the last week. Those are real.”

                     “They’re better than Jon’s. Do you know how defined that boy’s abs are?”

                     “Yes. I’ve seen them on multiple occasions because you don’t take “get a room” literally.”

                     “Gosh, Marge, that’s only happened like five times,” Ygritte exaggerates her voice to sound like a preppy teen. They giggle at the ridiculousness of it.

                     They get up and go back to the house. “Jon said he and Obara are leaving today,” Ygritte mentions.

                     “Obara just told me. Loras is coming home.”

                     Ygritte opens the back door. Margaery shuts it behind her. She feels bad for leaving Lady, but the dog is muddy and bringing her inside will mean not only the dog’s death, but quite possibly hers as well. Lady puts up a good fight, deflating her ears and whimpering in an attempt to guilt Margaery into letting her in. Not this time.

                     “Jon knows nothing. I’m glad he’s going with someone who at least has a brain,” Ygritte mutters.

                     “He figured out your disguise,” They go to the kitchen and start a pot of coffee.

                     “Took him an hour of staring at me to figure it out. I’m glad Quentyn’s not going though. That could have been awkward,” Ygritte leans against the counter. Her shoulders are tense and not relaxed like they used to be. She’s worried.

                     “He’ll be safe. According to him, he’s done a lot more dangerous things than this,” Margaery offers her comfort.

                     Ygritte half-heartedly shrugs. “Yeah. We just figured things out and he’s running off again. I should be with him, not stuck here.”

                     Margaery rests her palms against the edge and decides to divert the conversation. “How are you guys getting along?”

                     “Better. Old gods help me, but I love the bastard. We’ve been talking.”

                     “You’ve been talking? That must be a first,” Margaery huffs a laugh. “Before or after he ate you out.”

                     “After. It was glorious. Still bristles me that he had to fucking lie about it all. Even more so that he cut his damn hair. But I forgive him. I can’t hate him for circumstances beyond his control.” Ygritte pours her coffee and adds a shot of espresso. “Bastard lies to me again though, I’m wearing his cock as a necklace.”

                     “I’ll be there to hold him down for you,” Margaery pours her own cup. They toast and drink.

                     “So you and Alayne…”

                     The coffee mug covers Ygritte’s face as she gulps it down, hiding her from Margaery’s glare.

                     “It’s complicated,” Margaery says.

                     As if she was a genie summoned by her mistress, Alayne enters the kitchen. In one hand she carries a fabric of some sort with pins and needles sticking out of it. Margaery can hardly remember the last time she saw Alayne sew. A warm smile crosses Alayne’s face. “There you are.” She sits down beside Margaery. She sets aside her sewing materials and covers Margaery’s hands with her own. “I was hoping we could talk a bit more. There are some things I want to tell you. Maybe go on a walk through the gardens or take a ride to some overlook. I bet it the view would be gorgeous.”

                     Ygritte quietly excuses herself, giving Margaery as much privacy as she’s likely to get in this house.

                     “Yeah we should,” Margaery sips her drink.

                     Sansa sits down across the table from Margaery, directly in her line of sight. She smiles softly.

                     Margaery looks at her coffee mug, then back to Sansa. All the hope in her eyes almost breaks her heart, but she won’t let this woman break her heart again. It’s not fair for either of them. “We promised each other honesty right? So here’s me being honest. Sansa, last night was… it doesn’t change things between us.”

                     Sansa refuses to break her smile. “It did. You opened to me. I’m not going to pretend things are the way they are before, but things are changing, progressing. I still love you. That won’t change. I’m going to earn your love back.”

                     “What if you can’t?” Margaery finishes her coffee and gets up.

                     Sansa goes around the table to Margaery. She’s intrusively close. “You loved me. You still do, even if you’re too angry to realize it right now. Which you have every right to be angry, but…Margaery. I don’t know what else I can do. I have nothing left to apologize for.”

                     “I loved Alayne. Sansa Stark…” terrifies me, she’s about to say, but doesn’t. Even honesty has its limits, so she thinks of an alternative truth. Her feelings and what others know of them are some of the few things she still has control over in her life. “Sansa Stark isn’t Alayne.”

                     Not wanting to acknowledge the desperation on Sansa’s face, Margaery drops off her mug in the sink and mutters and apology to Oberyn when he says good morning as she brushes past him.

                     In the shower, her thoughts flow. Renly, Cersei, Alayne, Obara, Sansa, the article, Loras, her grandmother, Garlan. They all run together. It’s on her to keep it in order and sort it out. It’s her mess and she has to fix it.

                     She’s always been a creature of order. So she puts them in order. What can be solved now, what can wait. By the time she gets out of the shower, she has a plan. It begins with finishing her article. It’s nearly done as is, but it’s missing that spark that will turn it from an intrigue piece to breaking news that will find its way to every major news outlet from  the bloody _Red Watch_ to _Westeros Daily_ to the _Westerosi News Newtwork_. Hours spent going over her notes and interviews turn up nothing of value.

                     As she works on her article, the others came in and out. Ygritte mentions that Jon and Obara have been locked in meetings with Sansa, Oberyn and Olenna all day, likely finalizing plans for saving rescuing Loras. Let out of the primary scheme, the rest of the Viper’s clan, Karstark, and Ygritte are left with little to do other than find ways to entertain themselves. Karstark, for his part, retells valiant tales of working in the Stark Mafia. His near death experiences and glories of climbing through the mafia ranks impress no one. Eventually, they all scatter, letting Margaery finish her work in peace.

                     As Margaery packs away her things, Quentyn comes in. “We are saying our goodbyes now, if you would like to join us.”

                     “I’ll be there momentarily.” She follows after him.

                     They’re all gathered around the front door as if wishing farewell to beloved cousings rather than strangers forced together in a bizarre scheme of events. Sansa hugs Jon as Ygritte bickers by his side. Obara is talking with her sisters. She’s not much of a hugger. The most affection Margaery observes is a pat on the shoulder. Olenna interrupts them and whispers something to Obara, who nods in acknowledgement.

                     Margaery isn’t sure whom to go to first, so she stands back in between the two. She nearly jumps when she feels a furry head nuzzle against her hand. She hadn’t expected her grandmother to ever let Lady back in the house after this morning. Apparently she was more forgiving than usual. Or she didn’t know about her crushed daffodils.

                     Jon approaches to scratch Lady’s head. “You be a good girl and watch over Sansa.” He smiles at Margaery. “Both of you.”

                     “She’s a big girl. She can take care of herself,” Margaery mutters.

                     Jon awkwardly pulls her into a hug and grumbles, “Doesn’t mean an extra pair of eyes will hurt. She’s got a lot stressing her out with the mafia right now and could use a shoulder to lean on.”

                     Ice melts under heat and pressure. Perhaps someone forgot to mention that to “Ms. Stone-Cold.”

                     “Get my brother back. Be safe,” is all she says.

                     Ygritte grabs his arm and wraps her arms around his neck. “Don’t do anything stupid, Snow. I don’t want to have to hunt down some prick cause you can’t take care of yourself.”

                     “I’ll let Obara do the thinking for both of us, okay?” he grins.

                     Ygritte pulls his head down and presses her forehead against his. “Being with you has made me soft.”

                     “That’s just what love does, I suppose,” Jon kisses her. Ygritte holds him tight. Her emotions are raw and vulnerable, on display for everyone to scrutinize rather than hidden under a mask of sarcasm and defiance.

                     Margaery is so caught up in the spectacle of her friend that she doesn’t notice Obara at her side. “Any words of advice?”

                     In her brown jacket, low boots and pulled up hair, Obara looks less like she’s going on a mission to break a man out of jail and more like she’s on a night out with friends.

                     “Invest in a winter jacket. Dorne makes King’s Landing look like Winterfell.”

                     “And what does it make Winterfell look like?”

                     “A glacier of eternal snow,” Margaery quips.

                     Obara laughs and steps closer. “Good to know. Don’t worry about Loras. He’ll be back without a hair harmed. I can’t say that’ll be true for anyone who gets in our way.”

                     “Thank you,” Margaery says. “Truly, thank you. I don’t know if I can ever repay you.”

                     “I don’t require repayment,” Obara murmurs.

                     Suddenly she’s closer than Margaery realized. She cradles Margaery’s cheeks and pulls her forward for a kiss. It’s short and rough, but leaves Margaery’s head spinning from the shock. The salty sweetness of her lips lingers on Margaery’s mouth as she tries to map out what had just happened.

                     “One for the road,” Obara winks. She gives Margaery one last hug, mutters a half-hearted good bye to Alayne, who looks as though she’s using all of her self-control to not punch a hole into Obara’s chest, and she follows Jon out the door.

                     As everyone is about to depart in their own directions, Olenna snaps her fingers. “While I’ve got you all here, I have some news. My Spider appears to have caught a few flies in your water gardens Oberyn. Cersei Lannister is on her way here.”

                     “Is that not important information for them to hear? I’m pretty sure both Jon and Obara would be pretty interested to know that the whole reason for this crap will be sitting in your living room in two days,” Ygritte gestures toward the door.

                     “And have them distracted? This far south, the bitch is clawless. Their concern is Loras.” Olenna iterates.

                     “Spider? As in the Spider? Varys?” Sansa tilts her head.

                     “No, dear girl, I meant my pet spider Octavius who lives in Dorne. For such an intelligent girl, you can be quite stupid.” Olenna rolls her eyes.

                     “Ain’t that the guy Baelish hates?” Karstark asks.

                     “He can’t be trusted,” Sansa hardens her glare. “He’s a liar.”

                     “Excuse me, girl. I don’t care for the man much myself. He has his secrets as we all have ours. But he has never lied to me in decades of work together. Nor has he lied to Margaery in the course of her work, as far as I’ve been told. Tell me, what did he lie to you about?”

                     It was true. Of all her sources, even documents, there was nothing she trusted more than the words of Varys. He had a heart for fairness and justice. He was almost completely objective in his pursuits to help the country.

                     Sansa shuffles. “Well, I’ve never spoken with him, but-”

                     “A mafia leader whom has never spoken with Varys. Poor girl, you don’t know the fun you’ve missed. When you learn the things he’s learned…” Oberyn sighs. “Why do you not trust a man you’ve never met? It’s almost as dangerous as trusting a man you have met.”

                     “Petyr has dealt with him before,” Sansa held, chin high.

                     Olenna laughs. “Should Petyr be here then, making decisions for you? Regardless we are not in a state to reject notice that the woman we are trying to take down will soon presume herself a guest in my home.”

                     “Grandmother, let her be. She’s wise to listen to council of others where she has no experience herself. A mark of leadership,” Margaery finds herself defending Sansa.

                     Sansa’s eyes snap to her, confused yet pleased to have Margaery’s support. Tyene and Oberyn nod in agreement.

                     “Wise words of your own, Ms. Tyrell. Please make yourself available next time our little parties have a meeting. Nevertheless, Varys is a man worthy of trust. So we must prepare for Cersei.”

                     “In the morning. It will be at least two days. That was all. You may all get back to your drinking games or whatever it is the youth does these days. And if anyone touches my last bottle of Arbor Gold, there will be hell to pay.” Olenna excuses herself as briskly as she can nowadays.

                     “That old woman is my hero,” Ygritte whispers.

                     “Mine as well,” Tyene agrees.

                     She’d always been Margaery’s. Mothers tended to be young girls’ heroines, but Margaery had always been drawn to her grandmother. The preference never seemed to both her mother.

                     Rather than focus on her grandmother, Margaery goes after Alayne, who had scattered as soon as Olenna had excused them.

                     She’d expected Obara make her move. But not in front of Alayne.

                     The kiss itself had been what Margaery expected from the woman. Passionate, confident, rough on the edges, but leaving her wanting more.

                     The message behind it was clear. The kiss was less for her and more for Sansa, to show that Obara was staking her claim before leaving. She had no right to any claims. Because the first thought through Margaery’s head wasn’t “that was a great kiss” but “where is Alayne?”.    

                     She checks room after room before coming across her in Jon’s room with a needle and thread and some sort of cloth in hand. Lady lays by her side and perks up when Margaery enters the room. Sansa doesn’t look up as Margaery slides down to the floor next to her.

                     “How is your sister?”

                      “Fine,” Sansa says without looking up.

                     “And your adviser? Did Petyr say how they are doing?”

                     “Brienne is doing better,” she says curtly.

                     They sit together in silence. She’s not sure what how to seg into it. Eventually Margaery utters, “I didn’t kiss her back.”

                     She continues sewing. “I know.”

                     “She was trying to provoke you.”

                     “I know.” She stops sewing. There’s an edge of frustration in her voice. “Is it because of her? Is she why you won’t give me a chance?”

                     Margaery drops her head down. “No. “

                     “Then why? Why can’t you let me in?”

                     This close, Margaery can see the spots of red bleeding through the black dye in her, despite the braid. The tattoo under her shirt peaks out from the collar. Sansa scoots closer, invading Margaery’s space.

                     She could run, but she doesn’t. She told her she’d have honesty.

                     “You scare me,” she whispers.

                     “There’s nothing to be afraid of. I’m the same woman you’ve always known,” Sansa assures her, exasperated. She takes her hands and rub circles over her knuckles.

                     “I knew Alayne Stone. Sansa Stark took her from me. She was everything to me. Do you realize how cruel that is?” Margaery asks, close to tears. “You’re asking me to set that all aside and pretend that this was what I wanted all along. I’m not made of rubber. I can’t bend and twist to all your revelations.”

                     “Let me explain, Margaery. I know it hurts. I never wanted to hurt you. We’re the same though. I am still Alayne.” She pleads. “Every day I wanted to tell you. Watching you dance around Cersei’s grasp nearly killed me. After everything she did to me, I couldn’t let her-”

Margaery stops her. “Not now. We’ll talk under my terms when I’m ready,” she swears. She pulls her hand away from Sansa’s grasp.


	29. Changing Course

She had to make herself scarce. Cersei would arrive within the hour and no one except her family could be spotted. The Martell mob had fled for town, Ygritte was in the attic texting Jon, and Sansa was gone before Margaery woke up. Still, Margaery was adamant about seeing Garlan and Leonette, even if only for a few minutes.

                     The grin on her face is larger than any she’d had in a long time. Leonette may be four months along, but she’s barely showing. Margaery opens her arms wide to embrace her good-sister. “You look amazing, Leonette.”

                     “I look amazing? You look fantastic! Blonde suits you,” Leonette holds up a strand of Margaery’s hair. “I just wish it was under better circumstances.” She frowned.

                     Garlan wraps an arm around his wife’s shoulder. “We all do.”

                     Margaery rubs Leonette’s stomach. “How’s my little niece doing?”

                     “He is a nephew to you and he’s doing very well,” Garlan corrects.

                     Leonette playfully swats his shoulder. “We don’t know the baby’s gender. It is healthy though.”

                     “I’m glad. She’ll have the coolest aunt,” Margaery winks.         

                     “Janyce will be very loving indeed,” Garlan grins. Margaery sticks out her tongue at her brother.

                     Far too soon the Queen of Thorns terminates the family reunion. “Margaery, scat. The waste of a brain bitch will be here soon. Find a place where we won’t find you.”

                     Reluctantly Margaery hugged her brother and his wife one last time.

                     That morning she had figured out where she’d go. The greenhouse was full of crevices to hide in. Even with someone right on her tail, she knew the maze well enough to lose them. It didn’t hurt that the lilacs and azaleas were coming in to bloom. It was peaceful. Out there she may be able to clear her mind enough to figure out what the missing piece of her article is.

                     Things with Sansa hadn’t become any simpler. Sansa had been on the phone for hours the last few days for gods knew what crisis. When they both weren’t busy, they didn’t see each other. Sansa spent much of her time in the shed, which her grandmother had taken to chaining Lady to after she destroyed the flower bed. That had nearly come to a blowout. Fortunately Oberyn had been able to diffuse the bullheaded women’s tempers.

                     She was grasping at straws for reasons to keep Sansa away. Revealing her insecurities and guilt about Renly’s death had been the crack to her dam. When Sansa apologized and pleaded to explain, that was what Margaery held on to: Sansa was responsible. Without that, there was little else. Because she wanted to know the truth, both for herself and for her work. She wanted to believe that this wasn’t all a ruse to make a fool of her or exact revenge on another person. All this pain had to be for a reason.

                     If the truth wasn’t what she wanted to hear though….

                     She’d be better off knowing nothing. It wasn’t worth it.

                     Margaery explores the maze like she had done when she was a child. New entrances and exits, as well as new flower species, were added to the maze since she last wandered it. She eventually finds a little nook between a section of secluded lilies. It’s underneath the metal staircase leading up to the flowers which require more sunlight. The spot provides quick access to shade once the sun peaks in the sky.

                     Thinking about her work gets her nowhere. The scents of flowers mingling together calm her, though. She finds herself drifting away. It all snaps back when she hears rustling in the bushes around the corner from her. No one else is supposed to be here. Her grandmother had given the gardeners leave since she had arrived and the maid would not have wandered to the gardens at this hours, not with company in the home.

                     Margaery bolts to the corner to hide beneath the staircase. She peers around the corner to see… Sansa walking Lady like she was strolling through a neighborhood.

                     “You surprised me,” Margaery mutters.

                     Sansa ignores her and turns her back while Lady sniffs the bush.

                     Margaery watches her stiff shoulers and can imagine her locked jaw. Exactly how she looked when she scolded her for going to Cersei’s party. Had they talked before they could have avoided that mess. So Margaery takes a breath. “I’m ready to talk now.”

                     Sansa doesn’t turn, not even when Lady trots over and sniffs Margaery’s hand.

                     “I said, I want-” Margaery repeats.

                     “No.”

                     “No?” Margaery comes closer and tilts her head. “You’re the one that said-”

                     Sansa turns on her, eyes flashing. “I know what I said! That was before you treated me like shit!”

                     Margaery steps back. She hadn’t been expecting this reaction.

                     Sansa follows her underneath the stairs. “I apologized time after time. I don’t know how many times I have to say it! I’m fucking sorry! That doesn’t mean a thing to you though. I can’t play this game. I’m done going back and forth with you. Either you want me or you don’t.”

                     “You think it’s all so simple don’t you? I should have just cried a little then opened my arms to you. Every time I see your face I think of Renly’s vacant eyes staring back at me. I see every lie you’ve told me. I see Joffrey Baratheon in his casket and I see his sister and his brother watching him buried in the ground. I see every kiss, every time I loved you and I wonder whether it was all real. Excuse me if I’m not sure if I want that for the rest of my life, however long or short it may be. You have no right to play the victim.”

                     “I am not a victim,” Sansa’s voice cools to match her icy glare. She backs Margaery against the wall directly beneath the staircase. Lady tries to nuzzle her head between them with fruitless efforts. “I am no victim. Neither are you. Do you know what I went through before you? While you were gone? Waking up in the middle of the night sweating and panting because I dreamt of being chased by Gregor Clegane. Living a life of solitude because no one could know I was alive. Years having to fight off thoughts that it was all my fault. Every hope and prayer of every poor family in the North on my shoulders because they need food to survive the winter.”

                     Margaery clenches her fist against the wall, ready to bark back about how that’s not her fault, but then releases it. She’s too tired to fight anymore. She wants peace. “I didn’t know,” she murmurs.

                     “How would you? You haven’t given me the chance to tell you,” Sansa’s voice softens as well. It triggers a memory of the way Alayne spoke to her the morning she and Renly discovered the Starks were alive. Sorry, understanding of the pain she’d caused. And Margaery remembered her own words as well.

                     “Remember what I said to you about the party at the Lannister mansion? That I was only trying to protect you?”

                     Sansa nods.

                     “Can we start there? Why have you been lying to me?”

                     Sansa steps back. “The reasoning changed overtime.”

                     “How?”

                     Lady sits in the gap between them.

                     “I couldn’t just tell you who I was when I met you. I didn’t know you. And then I found out you were a reporter and I saw just how much your work meant to you, I knew I couldn’t let you have that information.” Sansa admits. Although the truth of the lack of trust stings, Margaery lets her continue. “By the end I wanted so badly to tell you, but you were finding out too much too soon. It didn’t…I couldn’t tell you the truth without risk of scaring you away, after everything you’d already found out. I was right.”

                     “You love me, but you don’t trust me?” Margaery jerks her head.

                     “I trusted Joffrey and Cersei and look where it got me. I trusted Robb would always be there and he’s not. I trusted my father’s men would support my family and after dad died, they fled. Before you, no one ever gave me reason to trust.”

                     “How deep did it run?” Margaery asks. This distrust. She needs to know how deeply it permeated their relationship.

                     “The mafia? It’s across the country now,” Sansa states.

                     “No. Your distrust of me.”

                     Sansa remains quiet for a moment. “Margaery, I love you. I’ve been falling in love with you since the beginning and it-”

                     “Up to the moment I left the house, you weren’t willing to tell me the truth. I know that, now. You didn’t trust me with the truth.”

                     “I did! I didn’t know how to tell you.” Sansa retreats a step.

                     “You didn’t. If you did, you’d trust me to not overreact about news like this.”

                     Sansa tightens her hold on the leash. “Look at the way you have reacted! I’m worse than a serial killer in your eyes!”

                     “Because I had to learn the truth by looking at a bloody picture of you and your cousin from 20 years ago! You can’t claim you love me, but not trust me to handle your truth. We could-” Margaery stops. There are voices nearby. They shouldn’t be there.

                     She yanks Sansa back under the stairwell and tight against her body. Sansa begins protesting but halts when Margaery points up. The echo has grown louder and the voices are coming from above. Hairs on Lady’s neck stand up, but fortunately the dog doesn’t bark or pant.

                     “My brother, horrid imp he is, is an excellent lawyer. He did help Robert out of a few jams. I’m sure he’d be happy to serve alongside, who is it? Tarly?” Cersei’s voice rings.

                     “With one brother of yours speaking on behalf of the prosecution, you’ll forgive me if I don’t jump at the chance to have the potential of collusion taint my grandson’s case. And Tarly is merely on the advisory board as a way to get his name in the news. I wouldn’t have that man debate the merits of cheesecake frankly,” rambles Olenna.

                     Margaery imagines Cersei rolling her eyes. She also can foresee her grandmother’s wheels turning for how to further irritate the woman.

                     “It was merely an offer. One less thing for you to worry about, especially with your granddaughter still missing.”

                     “I don’t need you to remind me of the trouble my family is in.”

                     “She’s in greater trouble than you know. She’s made quite a few enemies, Senator. Not ideal for a woman working in media, is it?”

                     “Don’t beat around the bush. You and she had no love for each other. Do you think she wouldn’t tell me your plain disdain for her? She hated you as much as you hate her.”

                     From the change in the way their steps echo, they’ve reached the stairs. “Actually Senator, that’s exactly what I’d been expecting.”

                     Her grandmother chokes seconds before something clangs and tumbles down the stairs and hits the ground with a hard thud. Margaery jolts to scramble to her grandmother’s side, but Sansa pins her back against the wall and gags her mouth shut. Cersei’s slow, methodical steps gingerly clink off the stairs.

                     Sansa leans in to whisper, “I’m going to move my hand, babe, but you can’t say a word. It will be far worse for all of us if she knows we’re here. Our trust starts now.”

                     Even with Sansa affording her room to breathe, Margaery feels cramped. She can’t help the woman who has been there all her life, who would give anything to help her. Her breath shakes, but she controls her breathing enough that only Sansa can hear her.

                     Sansa peers around the corner to watch Cersei and an unconscious Olenna.

                     “Please, pass this message to your granddaughter, Senator Tyrell. She’ll listen to you,” Cersei chortled. Like flipping a switch, she composed herself into a state of hysterics and ran down the maze screaming, “Help! Help! The Senator fell!”

                     Once she’s beyond earshot, Sansa releases Margaery. She dashes to her grandmother’s side. Olenna lies face down on the ground, mouth slightly ajar, eyes shut, leg bent awkwardly. She’s not moving. Margaery sniffles back tears and slowly kneels down beside her. “Gran? Grandmother? Can you hear me?”

                     Olenna doesn’t move. Margaery bends down, her ear inches from Olenna’s mouth. Her breaths are shallow and frail.

                     “Don’t touch her, Margaery. We need to go,” Sansa warns.

                     Margaery stays at her grandmother’s side. She needs Margaery. And Margaery needs her.

                     Sansa tugs on Margaery’s arm. Margaery tilts her head up to see the desperation in Sansa’s eyes. Margaery gets up and follows Sansa back to the corner where they left Lady.

                     “How do we get out of here without anyone seeing us?” Sansa asks.

                     “Follow me,” Margaery leads her to the thick of the maze. They both freeze when the worried voices and race by them, Garlan among them. Then they continue on. The path takes them to a sunroom tinted with green windows where only ferns grow. They exit through the door across the room.

                     Near dusk, they finally return to the house. Alayne doesn’t ask questions or say a wordm for which Margaery is thankful. She doesn’t cry. Her grandmother wouldn’t want her to cry. She’d want her to fight back like hell. Lady lays her head in Margaery’s lap. Her fingers mindlessly stroke the dog’s head. It’s near sundown when they hear Cersei’s obnoxious hybrid vehicle roar its engine signaling it was safe to return inside.

                     The Martells, Karstark and Ygritte are gathered in the backyard. Ygritte sprints to meet Margaery and Alayne. “Margaery, something happened to your grandmother,” she blurts.

                     “I know. I saw,” Margaery mutters.

                     “You saw?” Ygritte repeats. The Martells gather around them.

                     “I heard. Same thing,” Margaery mutters. “Cersei did it.”

                     “She did,” Sansa confirms. “I actually did see it. We were both there.”

                     Oberyn shakes his head. He slowly paces with his arms folded over his chest. “This changes our plans. She at least suspects Olenna has been in contact with you. She will increase surveillance in High Garden. My youngest nephew Trystane said she was suspicious of why Quentyn and I did not introduce ourselves to her during her visit.”

                     “She can’t possibly know,” Ygritte says.

                     “It only takes two loose lips to blow our cover. There were hundreds of people on the train, many of whom would be more than happy to accept a generous reward on information of the missing reporter,” Oberyn stops pacing. “We must change course.”

                     “Let’s go north. Alayne has a sweet hide out up there, right?” Ygritte offers.

                     “Please. There is already one Alayne Stone there. Besides, if what the real Alayne said is true, she has more enemies than she thought in Winterfell,” Nymeria smirks. “Forget the frozen wasteland. We can return to Dorne and regroup there. Sun is always good for the mind.”

                     “No, that will not do. Cersei is on higher alert now. King’s Landing is crawling with police and will be holding a man hunt once Obara brings back Loras,” Oberyn rubs his chin.

                     Margaery turns to Sansa. “Are your connections still strong in the Eyrie?”

                     Sansa nods. “Strong as ever. There’s a place in the mountains for us, but it’s small. We would not all be able to fit.”

                     “We do not all need to go,” Oberyn pats his nephew’s shoulder. “Quentyn shall go home. The family business is becoming crowded with buzzards believing they can swoop in while the Viper is away.”

                     “Lucky bastard,” Nymeria murmurs.

                     “You’re the bastard,” Tyene teases.

                     “So are you, you bitch,” Nymeria snaps back.

                     “Not now, girls,” Oberyn separates his daughters.

                     Karstark smiles smugly. “You know, boss, if you need someone in charge of things back home, I’d be more than happy to take charge.”

                     “I trust my sister and Baelish, but thank you Karstark.” Sansa tilts her head. “Actually, perhaps you can do something for me.”

                     Karstark stands tall and proud in expectation.

                     “Visit Petyr in King’s Landing and pick up what is due to the people back home. Deliver it to them. Every cent goes to the right family and not a dragon missing,” Sansa says.

                     Karstark’s smile flips into a frown. “After all of this, I am relegated to being a messenger? I helped you find your southern bitch!”

                     Sansa smacks him, leaving a red mark on his cheek visible under his beard. “I have warned you of your language in the past. Consider this grace for your help. This job is an honor. We shall discuss this once we are done here, but my decision is final. You are going home Karstark.”

                     Karstark tappers back his rage long enough to storm back into the house.

                     “My apologies for him. He’s a hot head,” Alayne explains.

                     “We have many in my family. Me among them,” Oberyn smiles.

                     Margaery cannot find the humor that everyone else seems able to see. “Is this our plan? The six of us going to the Eyrie?”

                     “It will be nine actually,” Tyene corrects. “My sister and your henchman will bring Tyrell too, once they acquire him.”

                     “Ransom me,” Ygritte announces.

                     “Excuse me?” Margaery looks at her perplexed.

                     “They think we’re kidnapped still, yeah? So let’s give the people what they want. We can make a good kidnapping story.” Ygritte explains, bouncing in excitement for her decision.

                     “How will you pull off this grand scheme,” Tyene gestures. “Are we to be the ransomers?”

                     “Yes, you are,” Oberyn smirks. “You two will ransom Ygritte for 3 million dragons.”

                     “Has the lack of sun numbed your brain, father? The Tyrells do not have that money and the government will not pay us. It’s a catastrophe waiting to happen,” Nymeria argues.

                     “We will not actually take the money. Ygritte will escape. We send out a ransom video, the wild one makes a daring escape and she shall be the media darling rather than Loras,” Oberyn draws out the plan.

                     As much of a risk as the scheme is, the benefits could be what they need to throw Cersei off their tails. Still, damage has already been done.

                     “I don’t want Cersei distracted. I want her face-to-face,” Margaery says.

                     “You shall have her. But first we will bring her down. When Ygritte makes her escape, you shall release your article. The news storm will be too much for her and we shall have the element of surprise.”

                     Alayne ponders the notion. “If this fails, we have nothing. Cersei has everyone right where she wants them: my men in jail, your daughters with them, Ygritte within her grasp, and us secluded in the mountains.”

                     “I prefer to think as an optimist, dear girl,” Oberyn winks.

                     “I accept the risks. As long as Cersei bleeds in the end. What of you?” Margaery looks at the rest of them. Ygritte nods her head emphatically. Nymeria and Tyene glance at each then back to their father. “We will do this. We trust you, father.”

                     All eyes are on Sansa. “Cersei already knows the Starks have returned. She has men after my sister in my home. We need a quick strike against her, not a convoluted plan. I think we should secure Loras, then strike immediately.”

                     “A convoluted plan can still be quick, little Stark,” Oberyn assures her.

                     “We make our move within two weeks, or I will take Cersei on my own. And do not call me little. I am as tall as you.” Alayne goes back to the house.

                     Later that night, Margaery washes out what is left of the hair dye in Ygritte’s mane. She needs to look exactly the same as before.

                     “You think they’ll give me free junk food before interviews?” Ygritte asks

                     Margaery strokes her fingers through Ygritte’s curls. The yellow stains her fingernails. “Mhhhmm. I haven’t been behind the camera since college, but with a woman as in demand as you’ll be, they’ll give you anything to talk.”

                     “Would you rather me tell them that you were shipped to Astapor or that I know nothing of your whereabouts?” Ygritte rolls her eyes up to see Margaery.

                     “Tell them I joined some pirates to sail the Volantis Seas,” Margaery muses.

                     “They won’t buy that.”

                     “You’d be surprised what some idiots will believe,” Margaery hums. “You’ll be a handful for the make-up crews.”

                     The last of the color drips from Ygritte’s hair. Ygritte swings forward. Water spatters across the tiles.

                     “They better make me look like a pretty princess or else I’ll rip out their fancy gold teeth.”

                     Margaery snatches a towel off the rack and hands it to Ygritte. She helps her wrap it around her head. “Don’t do something else stupid while I’m gone.”

                     “Of course not. I’m just going to lead a protest outside L&C, that’s all,” Ygritte smiles. “Between you and Jon, you’d think I was a daredevil.”

                     “You are a daredevil,” Margaery dries off her arms.

                     “Daredevils have cool bikes. Nope, I’m just your wild, much cooler, much better balanced best friend.”

                     Margaery snorts and higs Ygritte firmly. “I’m going to miss you.”

                     Ygritte squeezes her. “Stop getting soft on me, Tyrell...I'm going to miss you too."

                     The next morning is too rushed. Margaery tells her brother and mother goodbye and leaves them instructions to care for Olenna. Her mother tells her that Olenna is in critical, but stable condition. She suffered a heart attack after the fall, compounding her injuries. At her age, Margaery can only pray the gods take mercy on her, one way or the other. She doesn’t require the gods to ensure Cersei will suffer.

                     She packs her things and says farewell to her friend one last time. It’s with mixed feelings that the rose bushes and  lush green trees of High Garden fade from her view.


	30. Sansa's Story

                     By the time they reached the border to the Eyrie, Ygritte’s ransom video was playing on every news station in Westeros.

                     No one had bothered to tell Jon. He called Margaery’s untraceable phone to chew out Sansa. Margaery heard clearly despite Sansa sitting in the back of the car. Sansa took it all in, never flinching at his words or tone of voice.

                     “It was her idea, Jon. If you have a problem, take it up with her,” was all she said before hanging up.

                     The media whirlwind picked up after that. Although Margaery still felt her story was incomplete, there was no more time. Oberyn dropped her and Sansa at the cabin before going back to town and using one of the local library’s computers to send the article to Doran. It was the front page story of the _King’s Courier_. She imagined the look of eerily calm anger on Jorah’s face when he saw the cover. He would call each one of his reporters into the office. But he would never suspect Doran. He was too well-reserved and he and Margaery had barely spoken to each other in her year there.

                     That evening Ygritte stumbled into the train station in Dorne, directly into an Unsullied officer so she would be whisked away to King’s Landing asap.

                     Half of the reporters in the city were camped outside L&C while the other half were on knocking down doors to get an exclusive interview on the miraculous escape of Ygritte Thenn.

                     All of this is relayed by Oberyn. The mountains have shotty cell signal, no satellite signal, and outdated television cables. Being the least suspicious of the contingent, he spends his daytime in town. Sansa speaks daily with Petyr Baelish and her sister. The two are holding down their operations well enough for the time being, as far as Margaery can tell.

                     It’s five days after they’ve left High Garden when Sansa knocks on her doorframe and comes in. Margaery sets aside her book and looks up. Sansa gives her a soft, wary smile. “Can I come in?”

                     Margaery nods.

                     Sansa shuts the door quietly behind her. For once, Lady doesn’t follow her in. Likely she’s out roaming the trees around the cabin. From a distance she looks like a wolf, so any wanderers steer clear of her.

                     “What are you doing?” Sansa asks.

                     “Distracting myself,” Margaery says. Without writing and media to occupy her time, she has too much time to think about Loras’s rescue mission tonight, to think about her grandmother’s continued comatose state, and to the about what Sansa is to her.

                     “Loras will be okay. Jon knows what he’s doing, and I trust Podrick,” Sansa assures her. Podrick must be her inside man.

                     “I know Obara,”- Alayne frowns at the name -“and Jon are prepared. He’s been in there so long, and he hasn’t had anyone to help him grieve. I’m scared of what Loras will be when he’s out.”

                     Sansa puts an arm over her shoulder and pulls her against her own shoulder. Margaery tucks her head against her neck. She glances down and notices the tattoo of her name underneath her nose.

                     “You and Garlan and your father and grandmother will be there to help him. He’ll come out okay in the end,” Sansa strokes her hair. It’s such a familiar gesture that for a moment Margaery imagines that they’re sitting against the couch in Alayne’s living room just talking. “Margaery, I want to talk to you about me and my past.”

                     Margaery sits up. Sansa stares back evenly, not giving away sign of hope or desperation.

                     “Tell me, what became of Sansa Stark?”

*******************************************

                     _“The basics you probably know. I grew up in Winterfell, I had three brothers and a sister. My Aunt Lyanna died in a car accident when Jon was still a toddler. Father took him in and raised him as part of the family._

_Then there was the mafia business. Dad did his best to keep it out of the home. Only his most trusted men had access to the home. Howland Reed, Petyr Baelish, Jon Umber.  Back then there was no need for the mafia to be underground though. Press would take pictures of mum and dad when they were out, even Robb. They were more protective of me and the little ones. We wore disguises in public and never made actual family outings._

_I knew dad was into some bad things. He and mum would argue about them when they were in bed and thought I was asleep. But he loved is so much. We were his greatest concern, even if he had a duty to the North. Everyone In the North respected him for his sacrifice. Without him, so many families would have spent winters freezing and starving. He made decisions that are easy to criticize when you’re not the one responsible for thousands of lives. He was the best man._

_Mum shielded us the most. She was loving and kept us from the public eye. She wanted us to live lives as close to normal as we could, even with Unsullied force members spying on us and news press looking to find that one break to catch dad in illegal activities._

_When I was young, his work frightened me. But as I grew up, I saw the romantic side of the mafia: danger, love stories, romance, passion. Ridiculous dreams of lovesick girl._

_That was when dad’s best friend Robert moved to Winter’s Town with Cersei and Joffrey and Myrcella and Tommen._

_Joffrey was a dream to me. He was charming, he said all the right things, he had a pretty smile and pretty hair. He had an air of danger to him. He showed interest in me and I convinced myself I loved him for it. Silly twelve year-old me._

_I’m not certain how it came about, but one day after my thirteenth birthday, dad came home with a contract. He asked me what I thought of Joffrey Baratheon. And I told him he was the dreamiest, handsomest, nicest boy I’d ever met and that I was in love with him. Arya scoffed at that._

_He asked me what I thought of marrying him. I felt like I could jump over the Wall, I was so thrilled. Now, I don’t know why. It was such a stupid thing. What girl with a brain full of visions of romance and love and without an inkling of what the real world was would say no to a boy like Joffrey?_

_That night mum and dad screamed at each other until their voices gave out. Mum thought it was the most idiotic idea to sign away my life into a marriage at my age. Dad said it wouldn’t be until I turned 18. Mum screamed that it shouldn’t happen at all. I should be free to live my life. At the time, I thought I was exercising my right to be free. Dad said it was this or the North would fall apart. We needed the Lannister money to keep the investments of Northerners from driving us into a recession._

_I must have fallen asleep, but in the morning, mum refused to look at dad._

_I saw Joffrey more after that. I would go to his parents’ huge cabin and he would come to our house. He’d tell me how one day he would take over the Lannister mafia. No one would ever defy him._

_His words became harsher. He began with simple teasing at quirks I had like pinching my fingers when I was nervous. I tried to stop doing that around him. He’d talk endlessly about how the mafia would be better under him._

_I knew nothing of the mafia world back then. I would nod and agree and smile, and he would call me an idiot. I started accepting his words as truth. Then one day he hit me. We were in his backyard and next thing I know he smacks me across the cheek. He said I should respond when I’m spoken to._

_It happened more and more. He’d punch my arm, whack the back of my head. Sometimes he would apologize. Most of the time he didn’t._

_Arya noticed first. She saw the bruises and asked how I got them. I told myself I loved him, so I told her they were none of her business. She told Robb. Robb knocked on his door, excused himself past Myrcella and clocked him in the mouth. He said if Joffrey ever hurt me again, he’d have more than his pretty face to worry about._

_Shortly after that, Robert Baratheon died. Joffrey became even worse. Nastier toward me. One day while Robb was at his best friend’s house, he came over. He put on the charade of prince charming, asking to take me on a walk to someplace special. Like every other time, I believed him for his performance and went. We held hands and he led me to this little park. I thought he’d do something romantic. Instead he grabbed a fistful of my hair and forced me to my knees._

_He screamed at me to take off his pants. I refused. He’s wanted me to do things like that before, but I wasn’t comfortable doing that back then. He kicked me for not obeying. He caught me in the mouth and I started bleeding._

_I’m not sure what else he would have done. Arya had been playing in the park with some boy when she heard the commotion. She ran over and saw what was happening and threw a rock at Joffrey. It bent his finger back so far he broke it. He ran off screaming._

_Even after all that, I thought I loved him. He was allowed to be angry with me. Arya had no right to do what she did. I told her that much. Rather than listen to my hollow threats, she ran home and told dad what happened._

_When I got home, I remember the look on mum’s face. She ushered me to the bathroom and cleaned me up. She asked me what happened, but I wouldn’t tell._

_They sat down together and said no matter what, I wouldn’t be in trouble. I said I loved Joffrey._

_Mum- her eyes looked so sad. I know I disappointed her then. She said there were other boys, nicer boys, boys that would treat me the way I deserved to be treated. Dad said a man capable of love wouldn’t do this to a girl. He asked me again if Joffrey did it. I nodded. He hugged me. For the first time since I was a baby, I fell asleep next to my mum that night._

_By morning the contract was ripped up. Dad said he wanted nothing to do with the Lannisters. They’d make things work on their own._

_At the time, I’m sure Cersei thought we’d crawl back to her. The Lannisters were on the verge of becoming as influential as the Targaryens had once been. It was shaping up to be another bleak winter and the mafia would need to increase drug sells to match demand from the families. They flooded the market with their own drugs._

_That backfired on them. The Dornish cracked down on drug smuggling into the region, closing down one market. Smaller, local cartels ran their own drugs at cheaper prices. We didn’t need any of that though. Somewhere around the Dreadfort, Roose Bolton discovered oil. Dad allowed him to take a chunk of the profits himself, but that discovery was more than enough to keep the bellies of Northerners full that winter._

_Cersei was furious. She took the contract to court claiming we breached our terms, but no sane judge was going to uphold that marriage stipulation. The mafia increased security for dad, but it felt unnecessary._

_And then- that night...”_

 

                     Sansa sniffles and her breath hitches.

                     “Sansa? Are you okay, Sansa?” Margaery gently squeezes her shoulder.

                     Sansa looks pale, but she takes a breath and nods. “I’m fine. Just…I’m fine.”I

                    

                     _“It was Robb’s birthday. It was supposed to be happy. We went skiing. It was Rickon’s first time in skis. We got home and we were going to have cake when Petyr came over. He had work he needed dad to look at. Arya and I were arguing about something, I don’t even remember what now. Mum made us clean the basement as punishment. I wonder would have happened had we not been bickering._

_We were still arguing in the basement, and then there was a loud bang. The entire house shook. Arya tried to open the door but it was searing. The handle was glowing red. I don’t remember much after the smoke got in. I passed out. When I woke up Jon was giving me CPR. The house was gone. Later he told me he kicked in the basement window. Arya crawled out, Petyr pushed me out and barely escaped himself before the building collapsed."_

                     Sansa stops again. She ducks her head and Margaery watches as she blinks the tears away. She doesn’t realize that she’s holding Sansa’s hand until Sansa’s fingers twitch beneath her hand. For a moment she thinks of pulling her hand away. The thought disappears instantly. She wants Sansa to know she won’t run away, not now. She squeezes her hand, a gesture to continue.

                     _"It was obvious the Lannisters did it. Cersei and Joffrey took everything from me. Only those closest to dad knew we were still alive. They told us of Cersei’s vile joy and Joffrey’s smugness that his damn plan worked._

_I blamed myself. I was the idiot who insisted on wanting Joffrey. I was a lovesick fool and told myself they died because of me. Such an idiot…"_

Sansa’s voice grows hoarse and muffled. Her fingers tighten around Margaery’s to ground herself.

                     “Hey, hey,” Margaery coos gently. She draws Sansa’s chin to look in her eyes. They’re the same pale blue ones she’s known all along. There’s desperation for acceptance in them. “You’re not an idiot. You were a little girl. You’re allowed to have dream at that age, Sansa. Dreaming is never idiotic.”

                     Sansa sniffles. A couple of tears stream down her cheeks. Margaery hesitates before softly rubbing her thumb across Sansa’s cheek.  She shifts closer, enough to feel Sansa’s deep breaths against her lips. She pauses, and then murmurs, “I’m sorry for your family. I know you loved them.”

                     Sansa nods, her eyes trained on Margaery’s. “I did. I miss them.”

                     Margaery wants to pull back. She doesn’t. Her desire to comfort Sansa keeps her in place. Her stomach twists in knots from the intensity of Sansa’s gaze. Her hand still caresses Sansa’s cheek when Sansa moves in.

                     Margaery maintains eye contact up until the last moment, when Sansa’s lips brush against hers. She closes her eyes and it’s not Sansa she’s kissing, it’s Alayne. The lips feel the same when they brush hers again. Margaery parts her lips slightly and savors the feeling of Alayne gently sucking her bottom lip between her lips.

                     A hand cradles the back of her head and she pulls Sansa closer. When she pulls back, she half expects to see the black hair she’s loved for so long.

                     “I’m sorry,” Sansa murmurs, although the small quirk of her lips betrays her. “I think I…I pushed a little too far.”

                     Margaery swallows and shakes her head, while pushing herself to stand up. “I forgive you.”

                     It wasn’t the response Sansa was hoping for, but it was the only one Margaery felt comfortable giving. She wasn’t going to lie to Sansa. Still, she wanted nothing more than to make the pain on Sansa’s face disappear. She smiles and offers Sansa a hand. “Thank you for telling me the truth. It… I’m sorry about your family.”

                     Sansa takes her hand and pulls herself up. “Being with you made it easier. Your presence makes everything better, Margaery.”

                     Margaery’s heart pounds faster. An inexplicable warmth drapes her and suddenly she can see it. All the similarities between Sansa and Alayne. She’s falling for her again.

                      The cabin door slams shut, startling Margaery away from her realization. “Margaery! Sansa!” Oberyn calls.

                     The girls meet him by the doorway. He’s breathless, but wearing his cocky gin. “We need to prepare the extra room.”

                     “Why?” Margaery asks.

                     “Because you have your brother back, Ms. Tyrell,” he opens his arms wide as though he deserves all the praise.

                     “The breakout wasn’t until tonight though,” Sansa says.

                     “What does it matter? My girl never fails. Loras is safe because of her,” Oberyn wraps his arms around Margaery.

                     Margaery hugs him back. She presses her forehead into the juncture between his shoulder and neck. For the first time in weeks, something has gone right. Loras is safe.


	31. Wilted Bloom

“She still hasn’t woken up. The doctor said he isn’t sure when she will,” Garlan says.

                     A brisk breeze blows through Margaery’s hair. She combs her fingers through it and glances up at the moon. “She will. She has to. Have you spoken to father yet?”

                     “He’s a mess. It’s difficult for mother to reassure him when she can’t tell him anything about the mafias. I’m not sure when he last got more than four hours of sleep a night.”

                     “I wish we could tell him everything. He deserves to know Loras is okay. And me as well.”

                     “He’ll understand, once it’s all said and done,” Garlan assures her. “Rumor has it the Unsullied are negotiating with Dornish authorities to search for your friends.”

                     Margaery watches two figures walk to the cabin’s front door. “They’re prepared. Tell mother I love her. And grandmother. And give Leonette a hug for me.”

                     “Will do. Bye Margaery. Love you,” Garlan says.

                     “Love you too, Garlan,” Margaery hangs up. She crawls to the attic hatch door and lifts it up. She drops the blanket in first, then herself. Reaching the roof had been more difficult than she remembered doing when she was a kid on family vacations to the area. A lot more climbing and a lot less of Loras lifting her up on his shoulders. Those were the measures needed to reach reasonable cell service here though.

                     Oberyn has already claimed a spot in the chair by the time Margaery makes it out of the attic. “Your friend has quite the personality. I’ve never seen a woman flip off the man interviewing her at a live news conference.”

                     “Which is why I never interviewed her,” Margaery chuckles. “Are they still set to be here tomorrow?”

                     Oberyn nods. “Obara says your brother has been very quiet.”

                     “He’s strong. This is a lot to handle at one time. He has to catch up,” Margaery defends him. Loras was always the strong one.

                     Margaery’s eyes flick to the doorway. Sansa is bent over refilling Lady’s dog food. Those skinny jeans fit her just right. Tight in all the right places, a little worn…. “Is that my jacket?”

                     Sansa straightens up and comes closer. Under better lighting, Margaery knows it’s her old jacket. The sleeves are tattered and only reach ¾ of the way down Sansa’s arm. It had been ages since she’d seen it, not since…oh.

                     “Yes. I kept it, I-” Sansa glances at Oberyn, then back to Margaery. “I hope you don’t mind. I also have your new jacket in my bag. In case you changed your mind about it.”

                     “It’s fine. I left it.” Margaery takes a step to go back, then changes her mind and turns to Sansa again. “Actually, could you go with me and get the jacket. It’s supposed to be chilly tomorrow and I might need an extra jacket for Loras.”

                     “Yeah sure.”

                     Margaery follows Lady and Sansa to her room. There are extra blankets and a pillow in the corner, just as she has set up in the other room. She will let Obara and Jon decide between themselves who gets the couch. Loras will have the bed.

                     Margaery closes the door until it is cracked just a hair while Sansa goes to the closet. “You had a bad dream last night?”

                     “How did you know?” Sansa asks. She grabs the newer jacket.

                     “I woke up to pee and you were whimpering in your sleep.”

                     Sansa holds out the jacket. “Well, childhood psychological trauma has been known to cause a few restless nights.”

                     Margaery takes the jacket. “Not before.”

                     “Before I wasn’t rehashing old memories that I’d spent years trying to forget,” Sansa snaps. Immediately her face softens. She sits on the edge of the bed and focuses back on Margaery “I’m sorry. Petyr told me some news while we were in town.”

                     Margaery sits next to her. She sets the jacket aside and places one hand on Sansa’s shoulder. “What was it?”

                     Sansa takes a deep breath. “A body bag was delivered to one of his business offices. Bronn was inside, riddled with bullet holes. Cersei knew Petyr worked with my father, and now that the she knows we’re back. She’s not an idiot.”

                     “What did he do with him?” Margaery asks.

                     “He had someone carry the body out to a truck before too many people caught wind. Then disposed of it, I suppose.”

                     He was their link to Cersei’s inner circle. Without Bronn, they were charging blindly into the lioness’s den. “Your sister, is she still okay?”

                     Sansa nods. “She’s fine. Brienne is recovering well. Fuck. She’s starting to toy with us. The damn bitch probably knows everything. We’re wasting time with these media mind games.”

                     Margaery squeezes her shoulder. “Cersei knows the importance of image. She wouldn’t dare make a false step outwardly with so much attention on her. We’ll make our move before she makes hers.”

                     Sansa eyes Margaery’s hand, then returns her gaze to her face. “Then we need to make it soon.”

                     Margaery picks up the jacket and stands. “I’m going to go to bed. Early day tomorrow. Good night, Sansa.”

                     “Good night, Margaery,” Sansa says.

                     Margaery shuts the door behind her. She hears a soft thud against the mattress as she leaves. She heads to the kitchen for a glass of water before bed. Oberyn pours himself a glass of wine. He grins over his shoulder as he watches Margaery take down a glass. “A toast to the downfall of the Lannisters?”

                     Margaery half smiles. “I’ll toast to that after we’ve succeeded.”

                     “You should be celebrating. You’ll have everything you want: your brother, your freedom, even my daughter if you desire,” Oberyn approaches and whispers, “Do not think I have forgotten of our deal. You shall have safe passage to wherever you wish to get away from here. That in itself should be reason to celebrate.”

                     She knows he is testing her, but she can’t help the first thought that crosses her mind: What if where I want to be is here? “It’s nice to see you have not forgotten, Prince of Dorne,” he grins at the tease. “I’d like to keep focus on what is to come. Like how will we capture Cersei. And who it will require.”

                     Oberyn snorts. “Simple, girl. The Viper will sneak into her most vulnerable place and capture her. She will confess her family’s sins and she will die. There is nothing more to think of. So drink, celebrate. The fall of the Lannister Mafia will be a glorious event.”

                     Margaery gulps the last of her water. “Good night. Don’t drink too much, cocky Viper.”

                     “The Viper never drinks too much.” Oberyn utters as Margaery walks to her room.

                     She sleeps on the bed a final time. She’s never minded sleeping on the floor when she’s had to, but she will miss the soft cotton sheets.

                     Not long after midnight, a long, low whine wakes her from her sleep. Laud sniffing and more whining lets her know Lady is outside her door. She’s about to shoo the dog away and back to Sansa’s room when high-pitched yelp shatters the night’s peace. Margaery leaps out of bed and runs down the hall. Lady halts behind her, tail curled and hair sticking up from her neck. After a few moments of silence on the other side of the door, she turns to go back to her room believing she had only been hearing things. A loud gasp, followed by a muffled sob change Margaery’s mind.

                     Foregoing knocking, she opens the door. Lady slides through her legs and nearly knocks her over in her haste to jump into the bed. She nudges her nose against Sansa’s cheek. Sansa wipes her hands over her eyes to clear the tears.

                     Margaery slowly approaches the bed. She sits on the edge and waits for Sansa to look up. When she does, her eyes are wild with fright. Even in the dark of the room, Margaery can tell her face is paler than it should be. She throws her arms around Margaery, her heart beating frantically.

                     Margaery squeezes her tighter and kisses the side of her forehead. Sansa mutters about a dream of watching her family die, each individually, and being unable to stop it. Her hand entangles in Lady’s fur. The dog doesn’t struggle or yelp. She merely lays her head on Sansa’s thigh. Margaery wonders how many times the dog has seen Sansa break down like this. Surely more than Sansa would admit.

                     After Sansa calms, Margaery releases her grip on Sansa. Sansa grabs her hand before she can think of returning to her own bed. “Stay with me tonight.”

                     Margaery closes her eyes. She can’t leave her like this, not at her most vulnerable. “I won’t leave you.”

                     Sansa suddenly lifts Margaery’s chin and kisses her. Margaery closes her eyes. Her lips taste salty from the tears. Sansa lets her break the kiss and tugs her to lay against her chest.

                     Later, she’ll blame it on the intensity of the moment. That doesn’t erase the words Margaery murmurs next: “I need you too.”

                     When Margaery wakes up again, it’s to the cabin door shutting. She sits up abruptly. Sansa groans and tries to pull her back down, but a familiar voice from the cabin kitchen beckons Margaery out of the bed and down the hall.

                     Despite having his head sheered to a buzz cut, Margaery recognizes him instantly. “Loras,” she breathes.

                     Loras gapes at her. “Margaery!” his voice cracks. All his confidence and bravado is replaced by confusion and fear. He approaches her. She meets him half way and hugs him.

                     He trembles in her hold. It’s probably the first friendly touch he’s received in weeks.

                     When he speaks, he’s in tears. “Margaery they think I did it. They think I- I killed Renly!”

                     “Shhh, shhh. I know. We know the truth. You’re safe now. I won’t let them hurt you again. Garlan and I, we’ll protect you. Everyone will know that you’re innocent, just stay strong, brother,” she murmurs as he sobs.

                     His sobs eventually devolve into hiccups. “Is there- where’s the bathroom?” he asks.

                     “Down the hall, third door on the left. I’ll be here if you need me,” she pets his stubbly head. She watches Loras wander down the hall.

                     He’s in worse shape than she would have imagined. He hadn’t been able to grieve properly, and there was likely no psychological help given to him, particularly under the selective eye of Chief Lannister. And he’d been forced to defend himself against vicious hounds looking for anyone to attack for Renly’s death. As loving as Mace Tyrell was, he wouldn’t have been able to hold Loras together on his own.

                     “I told you I’d bring him back to you,” Obara whispers in her ear.

                     Margaery jumps forward a step. She’d forgotten anyone else would be there. She turns around, and takes in the cocksure grin on Obara’s face. “You did. I didn’t doubt you would.”

                     Obara’s smile grows. “I told you, my sweet rose, I’d never lie to you.”

                     Margaery embraces Obara. “Thank you. Gods, I don’t know how to properly thank you for bringing my brother back to me. I can’t repay you.”

                     “Lucky you, I don’t require any,” Obara quips.

                     “Nor should you,” Sansa interrupts.

                     Margaery lets go. She’s caught between the two women while Jon stands behind Sansa. His hair is no longer looking buzzed, but is still short for his standards. Sansa glares at Obara, hand on her hip, still in her tank top and yoga pants despite the draftiness.

                     “We had a plan,” Sansa grinds out.

                     “It went to shit when you forgot to tell us Ygritte was volunteering for distraction bait. And my sisters were going along with her,” Obara cocks her head.

                     “We told you as soon as we could. It wasn’t as if it was intentional to leave you two in the dark about it,” Sansa argues.

                     “Then you understand. The change of plans on our behalf was as unplanned as yours. Isn’t that right, loverboy?” Obara asks Jon.

                     “I said we need to discuss any new ideas with them. Don’t try to involve me. You’re the one who went rogue. I still think the original plan could have worked if we just adjusted the timing,” Jon looks at Sansa. “A few more days of scouting would have done the trick. Podrick would have had the new rounds schedule figured out.”

                     “The more time we wasted waiting for that puff ball to map out hours put Loras and us in more danger. Intelligence is seventy percent intuition. As far as I’m concerned it was the only option.” Obara shrugs.

                     “Thanks to your bloody intuition, one of my men is still in Lannister hands. Part of this mission was to break out Podrick as well,” Sansa snarls.

                     “My concern was Loras Tyrell. I’m not one of your henchmen. What makes this man more valuable to you than any of your other lackies? You weren’t throwing a fit over Karstark or that Bronn,” Obara leans back against the corner of the wall.

                     Margaery quirks her brow. Obara had a point, albeit a minor one. Whatever her relationship with Podrick, Margaery knew it was nothing compared to…

                     “We’re on the same side, are we not?” Sansa barks.

                     “I don’t know which side you are on. I’m on her side,” Obara points to Margaery.

                     Sansa’s scowl grows. She looks like she wants to take another whack at her. Regaining her self control she sighs, “At least Brienne listens. She may be injured, but Podrick will be safer with someone who won’t go rogue.”

                     Loras’s footsteps thundered down the hall. “Brienne?!”

                     He screeches to a halt as Sansa turns around. “Alayne? You- you’re in King’s Landing. I’ve seen it on the news. What’s Brienne got to do with you? Is she here? BRIENNE!!” He screams to the ceiling as if she’s hiding up there.

                     Margaery reaches for her brother’s arm. “Loras. Loras, she’s not here. She’s far away.”

                     “Does she know? Do they know it was her? You know she killed him Marge, tell them.” He pleads with her. All the desperation of a man who hasn’t been believed in weeks.

                     Margaery rubs her hand soothingly up his arm. “They know the truth. They know you didn’t do it, Loras. That’s why we’re here. Sansa, and Oberyn and all of us. We’re going to get rid of Cersei once and for all.”

                     At first, he accepts her words. Then he jerks his head up. “Sansa? As in Sansa S-. What the hell is going on Margaery! The Starks are dead! How do you plan on facing Cersei?!”

                     He gets a wild look in his eye again. He breaks free of Margaery’s hold and marches up to Sansa. Before he can get too close Jon throws himself between them. Loras sneers down at him, then glowers behind him at Sansa.

                     “What have you done to my sister?” he bumps against Jon’s chest.

                     Sansa stands stoic as a statue. “I haven’t done anything to her. What happened with Brienne was an accid-“

                     “Shove it up your arse! She murdered him! He was a friend to her and she murdered him! If I ever see her again I’ll blow her brains out like she did Renly!”

                     Jon pushes him back. “Calm yourself, mate.”

                     At his side, Lady growls and snarls. Her sharp white teeth bare down, ready to pounce the moment he makes another false move.

                     “Mate? I’m not your mate! You may have brainwashed my sister into trusting you, but damn me if you do the same to me,” he steps away from Jon. “I always knew there was something wrong with you Stark, something to distrust.”

                     Loras tries to escape the circle, but Margaery catches his wrist. Their eyes meet, but he looks at her as if he doesn’t know her. His eyes narrow as he yanks his arm away. He stomps outside and slams the door behind him, nearly knocking it off its hinges.

                     Margaery tries to follow him out, but Jon cuts her off. “Let him blow off some steam. It’s not you he hates. He’ll come back.”

                     She knew he’d react this way. Furious. Scared, Confused. It didn’t mean his pain didn’t hurt her just the same.


	32. Trust

She finds him staring out the window in his room a couple days later. He hasn’t spoken to anyone except her since he learned the truth, and even then only curtly.

                     She told him the plans Sansa and Oberyn had made for the invasion. They wanted him on one of the teams going in. His police experience and physical abilities would be useful for such an intricate attack on the Lannister mansion. He hadn’t responded to any of it.

                               That had been a day ago. While everyone else packs and prepares for the return to King’s Landing, Margaery can only think of Loras and how distant he’s been. He has every right to be angry. She just wishes there was something she could do to mend his pain.

                     She silently slides into the spot beside him on the bed. She loses track of how long they sit like that. No one will bother them though. Being around Loras already has everyone on thin ice.

                     Finally, Loras gives her an opening. “How long did you know?”

                     “Not until the day that…the day that everything happened,” Margaery swallows. She tentatively grasps his arm. Although he doesn’t look at her, he doesn’t push her away. It’s a good sign.

                     “Renly,” he sounds pained just to say the name, “Did he know?”

                     Margaery nods. “He knew who Sansa was. But he didn’t know what Cersei was capable of.”

                     Loras clenches his eyes tight. “I could have… He was right there. Maybe if I had moved faster. Come a minute earlier, not wasted time changing out of my uniform after work…”

                     “Loras, look at me. Look at me,” she tilts his chin to see his watery eyes. “You couldn’t have changed anything,” He sobs. “Renly gave his life for yours. He would have done it no matter the circumstances. And you would have done the same for him.”

                     She pulls him against her chest as he cries. She can feel her blouse soaked through.

                     “He didn’t deserve that Margaery! He was good. He was kind and good!” he clings to her shoulders.

                     “Hush, hush. Renly was a wonderful man.” Margaery pets his hair. It calms him enough for the tears to subside.

                     “How can you ally yourself with them? After all she’s put you through, you run back to her thinking things will be different? That she won’t just lie to you again?” Loras’s voice rises as he goes on. “She’s a murderer just like the rest of these mafias. I swore myself to shut down her brand of crime. You’re better than this Margaery. Better than her.”

                     “I tried Loras. I shut her out, I ran from her. I told her off. I did everything I could to leave her and push her away. What she did to me, to us, it feels like she carved out a piece of me with a dull rusty edge, and I would never be fixed again. But I can’t…Gods, Loras she makes me…” she can’t find the words, surely that’s why her eyes fill with tears. Regardless, Loras ropes her into a tighter hug. “She says she didn’t know. She just wanted us safe. I believe her. I think I still love her. And I don’t know if I ever stopped.”

                     Loras finally lets her go. “Love isn’t always enough. It wasn’t for me.”

                     “I’m not saying it will be. I just. I feel so confused, Loras.” She admits.

                     “If she ever hurts you again her dog will be all that’s left of her memory,” he mutters. “Someone has to pay. For Renly.”

                     “Cersei will,” she assures him.

                     “It’s not enough. Cersei wasn’t there. She didn’t pull the trigger. That Brienne giantess bitch. He treated her like a friend, almost family and she murders him.”

                     Telling him it was an accident will do nothing for them. So she takes another approach. “Brienne will be on this mission. She’s retrieving Podrick Payne from prison this evening. There will be several casualties on the mission to demolish Cersei.”

                     “What are-”

                     “It will be chaotic. She’ll be prepared now. With bullets flying in every direction,  it will be difficult to know who’s being aimed for and who fired a shot.”

                     Realization dawns in Loras’s eyes.

                     Margaery continues, “Do what you need to do and do it discreetly. You can have your vengeance and mine.”

                     He thinks over her proposition. “What happened to it being an accident?”

                     “Justice doesn’t discern intention. All that matters is the end result. If no one else will give Renly his justice, let it be you,” Margaery replies neutrally.

                     She has nothing against Brienne. Truly, she doesn’t. Sacrifices are necessary every now and then for the ones you love. To Margaery, this is a necessary sacrifice.

                     “I’ll go. And so will you,” Loras straightens up.

                     Margaery’s head shoots up. “Loras this requires skills which you have. Strength, agility, ability to handle firearms. Martial defense. In case you weren’t paying attention for the last 28 years, I’m the brains not the brawn of our tandem.”

                     “I’ll train you,” Loras says.

                     “They need you,” Margaery retorts.

                     “And I need you,” Loras gets up. “Those people? I couldn’t give a damn if anything happens to them. All the matters to me is you and our family. If you want me there to end Cersei or protect Sansa,” he spits the name, “or kill Brienne, then I need you there to keep me focused.”

                     “Think of Renly,” Margaery suggests.

                     “I am thinking of him,” Loras snaps. “All I do is think of him. I can’t force myself to work with the people who killed him. There has to be someone I trust there. A good cop has backup he trusts. You’re my backup, Margaery. My support.”

                     She swore to help him however he needed. She wasn’t going to renege on her promise. She swallows thickly. “You have to convince them. They know I’m a liability in this.”

                     Loras’s eyebrow flickers. “Simple.”

                     The one stipulation she gives him is that he must make the proposition alone, as a way to show he does not fear Sansa and Oberyn. No matter his state of mind, Loras must appear confident and in control. He can’t show that she’s the thing keeping him together right now.

                     She’s packing her clothes when he returns. He throws one of his shirts at her. “Get changed, little sis. Your training starts in 5.”

                     Margaery moans in exasperation. “You meant to start immediately? I couldn’t have gotten a warning?”

                     Loras chuckles and Margaery feels as though she could soar on that sound alone. “Consider this your warning.”

                     She throws on proper work out attire and heads out to the yard. Loras has a tank top and a pair of athletic shorts on. He pulls his arm around his torso. Then he twists the other way, stretching the other arm. He twists far enough to see her approaching. “We’ll start with a three-mile warm up jog to the base of the hill and back. And then we’ll work on some hand to hand combat.”

                     By the end of the jog, Margaery feels as though she’s about to fall over. At Highgarden, the land was flat. Even their longer jogs weren’t nearly as intense as the climb back to the cabin. Her thighs will be screaming for relief for days.

                     The one good thing to come from their run is Renly and the Starks are as far removed from Loras’s mind as they could be right now. Training provides a distraction, though closely related to the horrors in his head.

                     Before Margaery can dwell on that too long, Obara strides toward her in her own work out clothes with a fresh towel over her shoulder and a water bottle. She holds out the water to Margaery, who gulps it down.

                     “Slow down, Margaery,” she laughs, “The goal is to stay hydrated, not to drown yourself.”

                     She gives the water back to Obara and pants, “Whatever you’re going to do, do NOT follow Loras’s shortcut. It’s not actually a shortcut.”

                     “Fortunately I won’t be going anywhere,” Obara gestures to the Loras returning from the house carrying a couch cushion in each sweaty arm. “I’m your sparring partner.”

                     Margaery gulps. Sparring partner? She assumed Loras was going to show her a few techniques and then help her learn the physics of it. Not that she would actually be fighting anyone, at least not yet.

                     “Don’t worry,” Obara smiles as she backs away, “I won’t be too rough on you.”

                     Loras starts off with basic instruction. The elbow is the strongest point in the body. If anyone comes up behind her, she needs to wind up and rear it back. Hitting a nose or even the gut will give her the time she needs to act. He has her practice the move on Obara. She never pushes ack to hard, wary of actually hurting the shorter woman. Once she has the form down properly, he uses Obara to show her how to flip a combatant.

                     “Loras, they will have guns right? Shouldn’t I be learning how to shoot and protect myself from gunfire instead of mixed martial arts?” Margaery asks.

                     “Shooting will be tomorrow. Say you run out of ammo of your attacker is too close to give you time to draw your gun? This training saves lives at the academy,” Loras says.

                     “Listen to your brother. Everyone in every mafia knows some amount of fist to fist combat,” Obara swigs down some water. “Even the giant oafs who throw their bodies around like blunt objects know how to block a punch.”

                     Margaery holds her retort as Sansa catches her eye. She’s walking toward them. Margaery hadn’t realized how bright the red in her hair was now until she noticed the way the sun beams filtering through the trees reflected off her coppery head. Lady followed behind her, mouth open panting, but easily keeping stride with her mistress.

                     Sansa dawns a small frown, likely from Obara’s presence. Her return hadn’t mended any fences between the two. Nor had Margaery told Obara of her rekindled emotions toward Sansa. She could scarcely admit them to herself.

                     Loras’s lips matches the curve of Sansa’s. “Stark,” he snaps.

                     Sansa doesn’t take offense to the tone. “There’s a storm coming. A possibility of snow with it. It’s rather chilly for your attire, is it not?”

                     The longer Margaery stands still, the more her body affirms Sansa’s words. While she’d been running and sparring, it had been easy to forget about the cool temperature. Now that she’d been standing still though, her shivering abdomen quickens.

                     “I have less than a week a to train my sister, Stark. She’s strong enough to withstand a little cold.” He glances at Margaery and his shoulders slump with the realization of how tired and hard he’d worked Margaery today. “Okay. We’re done today.” He wraps an arm around Margaery’s shoulder. “I’m taking the shower first.”

                     Margaery hugs him back and lets him go back to the cabin. He doesn’t spare another glance toward Sansa.

                     Sansa steps closer, but Obara calls for Margaery’s attention. “Nice work Tyrell. You’re a natural.”          

                     Margaery snorts. “A natural doormat, yes. Loras received the gift of athletic ability.”

                     “But you have so many other gifts,” Obara purs.

                     With Sansa’s next step, everyone’s tensions reach their peak. Lady snarls and bares her teeth at Obara as though she were an enemy.

                     “Obara,” Margaery begins, “I appreciate your friendship, truly. But…I stand by what I said originally: I’m not looking for a new relationship. I want to remain friends, nothing more.”

                     Obara’s eyes dart to Sansa. Her face remains straight and unreadable. “Why would you need a new one when you can run back into the arms of the woman who began this pain for you?” Obara begins to walk off. “My feelings remain the same. I hope I’m still here to pick up your pieces when she tears you apart again.”

                     Margaery’s eyes linger as she slams the door behind her. Sansa’s closed the distance between them when she murmurs, “I won’t do that. Not again.” Her hand slips into Margaery’s, her fingers curl around the outside of her hand. Margaery runs her thumb over the soft curve of Sansa’s knuckles.

                     “I want to believe you. I want to trust you,” Margaery moves her thumb from the back of Sansa’s hand, only for Sansa’s grip to tighten.

                     The sun may have illuminated the red of her hair, but it’s the ice blue of her eyes that Margaery stares into. Eyes that know her. Eyes that she knows. Names, faces, they all change, but the eyes never lie.

                     “Sansa, I’m sorry,” Margaery whispers. “I’ve treated you horrendously. You haven’t deserved half of it. I- umph!” Sansa yanks her into a strong hold, wrapping her arms around Margaery’s shoulder.

                     “I’ve already forgiven you. I don’t blame you for being cross. You were hurt.”

                     Sansa refuses to let go, but Margaery doesn’t mind. She nestles her head into the crook of Sansa’s shoulder. “I forgive you. For everything,” she mumbles. She doesn’t know if Sansa hears her or not, but just uttering the words feels like a having a massive weight removed from her.

                     Sansa’s grip, however, tightens in response. “Does this mean…?”

                     Margaery pulls back enough to look Sansa in the eye. “That we can pick up where we left off? No.” Sansa’s face falls. “I’m not ready for that. But I am ready to begin again. We can start fresh.”

                     Sansa’s chin brushes against Margaery’s arm, which is now reaching out to her shoulder. She stares at Lady, wagging her tail by their side and practically grinning up at the pair, then returns her gaze to Margaery. “I can’t do that.”

                     “What do you mean you can’t? You want this baggage between us? All the lies and the pain that tears us both up? You want that?” Margaery’s voice raises with frustration.

                     “Yes,” Sansa replies as Margaery takes her arms back. “I’m not going to pretend like the last year didn’t happen. It did, and as horrible as the lies were, it’s been the best year of my life. I don’t want act like the good parts didn’t happen. Laughing with you, talking with you, just being with you. How can you ask me to act like that never happened?”

                     “Because all of it was a part of your lie!” Lady whimpers between them, but Margaery continues, “I’m willing to give this a new slate. We don’t have to dwell on the past. We can know the real us, not some conjuring.”

                     “After all this time, you still don’t get it,” Sansa laughs mirthlessly. “Babe, I was me when I was with you. My name and my occupation has never changed who I am! I don’t want to start over because what we’ve been through makes us, us! All this shit, how you’ve hurt me, how I’ve hurt you, it makes us stronger. It’s part of us and we can’t shove it aside. I’m not going to act like I don’t love you.”

                     She wants to scream that it’s not fair. She compromised, now it was Sansa’s turn. Sansa may not want to forget the good times, but it wasn’t fair of her to ask Margaery to forget the bad. Yet, she couldn’t give voice to her emotions. They came out in streaks of tears down her cheeks.

                     Sansa wipes away the tears with the palm of her hand. “Margaery, we’re strong enough to get through this. I promise you, we are. Please trust me.”

                     Although the tears keep coming, Margaery nods. Because against her better judgment, she does trust Sansa and she wants this to work.


	33. Mutual Understanding

The first time Margaery pulls the trigger of her brother’s semi-automatic pistol, she almost drops it. The two shots it fired off before she let go of the trigger leave her ears ringing. The bullets scream several feet to the left of the target.

                     “Don’t be scared of it Margaery,” Loras positions her arms to point straight at the target, a couch cushion. “You have to keep your arms still, but don’t brace them to be inflexible. Give the gun room to recoil.”

                     The second pull doesn’t startle her as much, but she still veers wide left of the target. She adjusts her stance and re-aims the gun. This time she misses shoots too high and right.

                     Half way through their lesson she finally hits the target. Barely, but it’s progress. She’s able to hit it a few more times before Jon comes out.

                     “Nice as all this training is, you should wrap it up. We’ve got a long day travelin’ tomorrow. And I’d like to preserve some of our ammo just in case,” he smiles to show he’s joking, but Loras doesn’t take kindly to the interruption. Still, he holds his tongue, allowing Margaery to relax.

                     He still wasn’t getting along well with anyone except herself and Obara. Meals were awkward. Margaery had taken back to chatting with Sansa and Jon. Whenever she would attempt to engage Loras in their conversation, he would give tense and short replies to extract himself from the talk as quickly as possible. When he did talk, it was with Obara in huddled conversation.

                     It had only been 48 hours, but Obara had adjusted well since Margaery let her down. She still helped with the training, even if she was a little rougher than before. And after the first day, she even cracked a joke to make Margaery laugh after knocking her on her arse. It gave her hope that they could actually maintain a friendship.

                     **************************

                     She knows they’ve reached King’s Landing when the car begins reeking of sewage waste. South side of the city where her old apartment was, and the east side don’t like dung, but the North side still harbors the old sewage plant. It’s also the home to the most impoverished people in the country. The sheer number of security checkpoints set up for hounds to sniff for drugs means Margaery is relegated to hiding beneath the seats to ensure no one recognizes her.

                     Once they reach Baelish’s parking garage, Jon double taps the seat, their code for when it’s safe to come up. As she comes up, she notices Jon looking at a photo of himself and Ygritte on his phone. “Are you going to visit her?” Margaery asks.

                     Jon shakes his head. “I want her safe. Until Cersei is delt with, Ygritte is safest away from me.”

                     “If she finds out you’re in the city and avoiding her because of safety, she’s going to hunt you down Jon,” Margaery reminds him.

                     A smile creeps across his face. He slides to the next picture, one of him, Ygritte, Margaery and Alayne on an outing to the amusement park. It was just under a year ago, but it felt longer.

                     Both cars pull into parking slots simultaneously. Margaery follows Jon out of the backseat. She steps toward Sansa’s car, but is cut off a flood of henchmen who rush to unload Sansa’s things. Arya greets her sister, leading her out of the parking garage and away from Margaery.

                     Loras, Oberyn and Obara follow Jon, the defacto tour giver. Margaery doesn’t budge. She has no desire for a walk down memory lane. She does, however, need to lug her bags in. She hoists one over her shoulder and bends for the next, but a large hand scoops it out of her view. She straightens up to find Brienne towering above her with the most awkward and forced grin Margaery has seen since Megga told Elinor she was okay with her dating her ex.

                     “Ms. Tyrell. I would be honored if you allowed me to take your things to your room.” She sounds sincere enough.

                     Margaery plasters on her own far more convincing smile. “Of course, Brienne.”

                     As they walk in uncomfortable silence, Margaery wonders what Loras would do right now. Would he lose his temper and go for the woman now, or reign it in enough to appear complacent?

                     “Your brother…is he doing well?” Brienne finally asks.

                     “Fine, thank you. He’s adjusted quite well,” she lies.

                     Brienne accepts it without a second thought. “Good. Do you think he would be open to speaking with me? I feel so badly about Renly. He needs to know that. I never would have taken that shot if I knew Renly was going to do that. I’ve regretted it ever since, and he was such a kind friend to me and…”

                     Margaery pats her arm as if they are friends that go back years. “He understands. He’s a bit tired though from traveling and wants to right his mind for the mission. Forgive him if he’s not the most forthcoming with you.”

                     The truth was that Loras would go out of his way to avoid Brienne until a confrontation was impossible to avoid. Margaery prays that the situation is not forced for two more days. After that, Loras can do whatever he likes.

                      “Of course,” Brienne leads her up a set of stairs Margaery hadn’t seen during her escape with Ygritte. They open into a hallway lined with windows, far better lit than the dungeon of a basement she had been in before. “I don’t expect forgiveness. I can’t forgive myself. I want him to know it wasn’t on purpose though. I’d give anything to bring Renly back.”

                     Margaery lightly grasps Brienne’s shoulder in a seemingly friendly gesture. “We’d all give anything for him. He is not returning though. We must move on and make the best of the situation we are left with.”

                     Brienne nods, turning right and opening a door for Margaery. She allows Margaery to step in and follows her. She places the bag by a cherry wood dresser. Margaery puts her own bag at the foot of the bed. The room looks homey, yet fancy. Salmon painted walls, a four-poster bed, elegant mirrors on the dressers, leading into an insuite bathroom.

                     “I apologize for any stress I caused you as well, Ms. Tyrell. Although it was a dangerous situation, I could have handled it better. I failed you and Ms. Stark in insuring your safety. Can you forgive me?” Brienne ducks her head, hands clasped behind her back. A soldier accepting repudiation for ill behavior would not look so gallant. It makes it harder for Margaery’s words to be a lie.

                     “Yes, Brienne. You have my understanding and forgiveness,” She turns her back on Brienne and pretends to bend for her bag. “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to freshen up before whatever events this evening has in store.”

                     “Yes, Ms. Tyrell,” Brienne’s footsteps thump toward the door. “I’ll let Ms. Stark know you’ve taken to your room once I see her.” She shuts the door behind her.

                     Margaery unzips the bag on the bed and takes out fresh clothes and goes to the bathroom. It’s nicely decorated and more upscale than the space she had stayed in before. This part of the building must be used to keep up with appearances. A place intended more for the façade and less for use as the headquarters for an underground mafia.

                     She’s redressed and refreshed in time for someone to knock on the door. She expects Loras or Sansa, or even Obara. Certainly not Arya.

                     “Is there a meeting I’m needed for?” Margaery’s eyebrows knit together. She could understand why one of them would come fetch her, but not both.

                     Arya shakes her head. “You’re not needed with them.”

                     “Actually, I was…” Margaery begins.

                     “Let’s rephrase that. We’re going to come have a chat, Margaery,” Arya cuts her off.

                     She’s left with little choice but to follow Arya and Jon down the hall and into a dim lit room with wood panel walls. The Stark mafia insignia hangs on banner on the left wall. Photos of Ned Stark, Catelyn Stark, and what Margaery can only presume are Ned’s sons and a beast of a dog that must be Robb’s hound ornament the shelves. In the center of the adjacent wall is a massive sword. It looks authentic and sharp enough to pierce her skin with a prick.

                     “Is this the point where the mafia threatens me to stay silent or send me down the river?” Margaery asks, lacking all irony.

                     Arya folds her arms as she stares at the sword on the wall. She slowly approaches it, stopping two feet away.

                     “Something like that.” Arya’s pose reminds Margaery of a sergeant training cadets in for battle. Stiff but fluid. She twists around on her heel. “Everything in this room used to belong to my father. What little survived the fire is locked away. These pictures were at his headquarters in Winterfell. His jacket is in the closet. Ice was his most treasured possession.” She gestures to the sword behind her.

                     The name triggers memories of the sword tattoo on Sansa’s thigh. It has a similar pommel and exact blade shape. She’d always wondered why Alayne had the sword and word permanently inscribed on her skin. That one had always stood out the most to her.

                     “It’s a beautiful sword,” Margaery murmurs. She keeps her eyes trained on Arya. The mistress of disguises paces in long measured strides.

                     “Father used to say it was passed from generation to generation as a reminder of the trials the First Men faced during the harsh winter months. That sword slew wolves, elk, and dragons if the legends are to be believed….This is more than a mission to avenge our family. Pleasant as it will be to see Cersei Lannister with the chill of death over her body, this is for the greater good of the North. Peace and stability for our people. Listen, Tyrell. This is not the time for games. Whatever grudges you may still hold against Sansa and Jon are to be forgotten from this moment. Understood?”

                     “I have no grudges,” Margaery’s voice hardens at Arya’s accusatory tone. If she still had issue with Sansa, who was this girl to tell her to let them go?

                     “I doubt that. You can tell yourself that all you’d like. I did. I let it fester within me for years, motivating me until the moment came. And vengeance tasted sweet. Should anything go wrong with this mission, I’m sure my vengeance will taste just as sweet when it comes upon you.”

                     She’s not about to let herself be cowed.

                     “Is that a threat dear, or a promise? If it’s the first, you need to work on your delivery. You’re not as menacing as you believe. If it’s the second, I believe you’ll find yourself disappointed. Fortunately for both of us, we have a common enemy. I’m far too concerned with the woman who’s hunting for my head to worry about past…discrepancies.” she smirks at the flicker of surprise across Arya’s face.

                     It returns to an unreadable mask just as quickly as it broke. “Take it as both. And stay out of Sansa’s way. Your presence will be enough of a liability. Pointing a revolver at a target isn’t the same as shooting a man twice your size. Have you ever watched a man die, Margaery? Not just seen, but watched the life leave his eyes? His last puff of breath lingers in the air just a second before his lips begin to cool and his face pales. I’ve never regretted watching a Lannister die. Do you really understand what you’re doing?”

                     She sees it all replay in her mind again. Renly falling from the bullet. Struggling for breath. Eyes blinking a final time before staring blankly at the ceiling.

                     “I will handle myself. I know you won’t worry your pretty head about me out there, nor do I want you to.”

                     Arya comes closer, tilting her head up to meet Margaery’s eyes. “I won’t worry the least about you. Sansa will. Which brings us back to the core of our problem.”

                     Me or the mission, Margaery realizes. “There won’t be a decision. Sansa will do what she needs to, regardless of what happens to me.”

                     Despite the pressure of tears in her eyes, she maintains a straight face. She’s not sure why it’s so difficult to say. She’s known all along she would be the weak link. A liability in the field, no matter how useful she was in the preparation. The what if’s of failure had never felt so real before. Even when she was on the run from Sansa and Cersei, Margaery knew she had certain advantages. Her life never felt endangered at insurmountable odds. Yet the way Arya speaks, she might as well be making a blood oath for her casket size.

                     Does Sansa see her this way? Perhaps Arya is merely the vessel for Sansa’s own concerns. Between herself and the entire North, Sansa would choose her people. Margaery has no doubts about that. That doesn’t mean Sansa wouldn’t feel guilty. All along she’s been trying to protect both simultaneously. She believes Sansa loves her. Love isn’t always enough.

                     “Thank you. We have an understanding then,” Arya nods. “Watch for yourself and don’t drag any of us down.”

                     “Never been clearer,” Margaery mutters.

                     She heads for the door, ignoring the irritation she feels bubbling that she waited until Arya had clearly dismissed her to leave and not left sooner. Alliances only go so deep. Whatever she has with Sansa, the Stark Mafia is not her friend. It’s a partnership of convenience.

                     She marches down the hall, back to her room. She steps aside as Sansa rounds the corner with Baelish and a handful of other mafia members. Sansa leans over Baelish’s arm to read a report as a round man with a long chubby face and cropped white hair drones dully about the increased security personnel he has observed around the Lannister mansion in recent days. They almost go by without any acknowledgement until Sansa halts. Her entourage continues on, seemingly unaware that their leader has not.

                     Margaery is also unaware, about to continue back to her room when she feels a tapping on her shoulder. She turns back to find Sansa looking down upon her with a slight frown. From her periphery, she notices that the rest of the Stark mafia has finally noticed and waited.

                     “Babe, we’re heading to the kitchen for dinner. Join us? We were just talking about entrance points and your opinion could be useful,” Sansa offers. The desire to include her is sweet and would warm Margaery’s heart had it not been for the grimaces her trusted men and women wore. Only Petyr maintained a neutral face, which told her all she needed to know about how the mafia felt about her. They shared a mind with Arya.

                     “I’d love to, darling, but I’m tired and not feeling well. I think I’ll just catch some sleep,” she takes a small step back.

                     “Oh,” Sansa’s hands fall over the top of Margaery’s, holding her in place a moment longer. “I’ll bring you back something in case you feel better.”

                     “Thank you,” Margaery rises on her toes and kisses Sansa’s cheek, allowing herself to indulge a second longer than normal. She can feel the glares of the mafia drilling into her, warding her from their leader.

                     Margaery slips her hands out from underneath Sansa’s and wanders back to her room. She knows where she stands with the mafia and it shouldn’t surprise her in the least. Especially the Starks.


	34. The Last Barrier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NSFW.

Margaery’s voice is so smooth and effortless, it’s as though she’s merely telling her grandmother about a random day and not speaking in the hopes that the phone call will bring her comfort even in her unconscious state.

                     Her mother is there too, by Olenna’s side. She, Garlan, Leonette and father had been rotating shifts to stay by her side. Her mother told her that the doctors believed Olenna would wake any day. It was a relief to hear.

                     Talking on speakerphone made it easier to naturalize her voice. She could imagine it was just her mother there and could ward off any latent tears for her grandmother. Careful not to give anything to specific, in case a nurse happened to come by, Margaery told them they were back in King’s Landing and that Loras was in better spirits.

                     “When can you come home, darling?” Alerie asks. “Your father misses you terribly and he’s so scared. I’m scared too. What is it that’s going on that you’re not telling us?”

                     “Don’t worry mother. I’ll be back soon enough. Loras and I have some work we need to do first. Then everything will be as it should be.”

                     “I thought you did your part. We saw the article, darling. Why aren’t they letting you go?” Alerie’s voice rose in pitch.

                     “It’s not finished yet. That’s all I can say. Grandmother understands. If she was awake, do you know what she’d be saying?”

                     “After she finished insulting me for being such a bird of a mother?” Margery hears the hint of a smile in her mother’s voice. “She’d say you’re doing what needs to be done. We don’t see eye to eye on that.”

                     “I know,” Margaery sighs. “Can you put the phone closer to grandmother?”

                     The background noise rustles until the phone gently clanks on the table. At the same time, there’s a small knock on Margaery’s door. Sansa peaks in with a plate of food in her hands. Without any objections, she lets herself in and softly shuts the door.

                     “Grandmother, I know you can hear me. I miss you so much. There’s so many things I have to tell you, but now isn’t the right time. I’m going to tell you everything next time, I promise. You’ll be awake and scolding me. Everything’s going to be right again. I love you, Gram-gram,” Margaery uses the nickname she used for her grandmother when she was no older than six.

                     Sansa sits on the edge of the bed to wait for Margaery to finish. On the other end of the phone, Alerie sniffles. There’s less background noise as Margaery is taken off speakerphone. “Darling, the nurse will be back any minute, so I’m going to let you go. I love you. Be safe, my sweetling.”

                     “I love you too mother. Bye.”

                     Her mother hangs up. Margaery does the same and places the phone on the nightstand. She pulls herself up to sit against the stack of pillows.

                     “How are you feeling now?” Sansa scoots closer.

                     “Better,” Margaery waves off the food as Sansa pushes it in her direction. “I’m not hungry though.”

                     “I missed you at dinner,” Sansa put the plate on the far end of the nightstand. “Oberyn and I finalized our trouping parties for the plan. You’ll be with me, Brienne, and Loras around the back. Oberyn, Obara, Arya, Gendry and Jon will take the front. Are you comfortable with that?”

                     “Why wouldn’t I be?”

                     Sansa tucks a loose strand of her fiery red hair behind an ear. Although Margaery misses the raven-hair she used to know, Sansa’s natural red contrasts with her sea blue eyes beautifully. It’s as though fire and water have combined to make something so pure it can only be called Sansa.

                     “I know you and Loras don’t hold Brienne in the highest regards. She wants to protect me and I’ve been shirking her as of late, so I figured this opportunity would show her that I still trust her. But if her presence makes you and Loras uneasy I can have Jon or Arya or even Obara take her place.”

                     There is no doubt that she would be able to move past her own feelings on the mission. Time and understanding have earned Brienne her forgiveness, to an extent. On the otherhand, Loras is still out for blood. Placing Brienne right in his path would be like tossing chum in shark infested waters: messy and unstable.

                     Yet if Brienne was there, it would show faith. The Starks already distrust her. Should the plan change, they would immediately point the finger to her, bringing more stress on Sansa and further scrutiny upon herself. The more time she spends around Sansa’s henchmen, the more Margaery realizes how much they loathe her for capturing the attentions of their boss. Either way, she is left with unfavorable options.

                     In the end, she’ll always trust her brother. He will put her safety above his vengeance, that she is sure of. Perhaps a Lannister will take out Brienne for him. Regardless, she knows he will wait for the opportune moment to take his chance. When she’s safe and Brienne makes an easy target of herself and he won’t be the obvious reason for her downfall. Hot headed as Loras is, he’s proven to be patient enough when necessary.

                     “Sweetling, we’re all adults. None of us have to like each other to be able to reach a common goal. It just so happens that common goal is dismantling the axis of evil,” Margaery turns to fluff the pillow behind her.

                     When Sansa doesn’t respond, Margaery turns back. The other woman beams at her.

                     Margaery cocks her head to the side. She supposes Sansa has a right to feel glad that she approved of the organization, but surely it wasn’t anything worth being giddy over. “What?”

                     “You called me sweetling,” she barely refrains from squealing.

                     “What?” Margaery straightens up a little.

                     “You called me sweetling,” Sansa repeats. She judges the space between them and moves a little closer. The side of her hip bumps against Margaery’s. She leans forward, invading the outskirts of Margaery’s space, but not so close to make her uncomfortable. “You haven’t called me that in a long time, babe. It’s nice to hear.”

                     Sansa breeches the invisible boundary further. She edges closer. Margaery inhales and smells her citrus shampoo. Their eyes stay locked. Sansa hesitates for just a moment. Then she presses her hand softly against Margaery’s cheek, down her jaw line. Her thumb rubs a circle against the fleshiest part of her cheek.

                     Finally Margaery finds her voice again. “I hadn’t noticed. A slip of the tongue.” It’s feather-light, but Sansa’s eyes perk all the same at the sound.

                     Sansa continues her collision course, leaning in again. At any moment, Margaery knows that she reserves the right to stop this and Sansa would evacuate as far as Margaery told her to. She lets it go on. Her index finger traces down Margaery’s jaw to her chin. Her hot breath puffs against Margaery’s face, her mouth inches from Margaery’s.

                     “Because you didn’t think about it. It was as easy as breathing. It comes out and you don’t recognize it because of how natural it feels. Just like breathing,” Sansa murmurs.

                     The kiss that follows is soft and gentle like a fresh towel, slow to savor the taste of each other’s lips. Margaery cups the back of Sansa’s neck. She pushes more into the next kiss, which encourages Sansa to position herself over Margaery and straddle her stomach. She slips her other hand up to hold Sansa’s cheek in a mimicry of the way Sansa holds hers.

                     They remain leisurely and gentle until Sansa’s teeth accidentally catch onto Margaery’s top lip. Margaery nips back in return. She feels rather than hears Sansa moan in response. Retaliation comes with a new angle, Sansa’s lips pressing deeper, her tongue tasting Margaery’s lips, her fingers trailing down Margaery’s neck toward her collarbone.

                     The familiar ache pools in her stomach. It’s been ages since she felt such desire and need for intimacy. Intimacy with Alayne. Because if she closes her eyes and lets her other sense take over, she’s not in a strange room, but with Alayne on her bed, breathing in her scent as her hands explore Margaery’s body.

                     “Sansa,” Margaery mumbles once Sansa’s lips start on a path to her earlobe. “Sansa.”

                     Only after Margaery grabs her shoulders and pushes her up does Sansa stop. She folds back on to her knees, patiently waiting for Margaery to speak. Margaery pushes herself to sit up. “Sansa, where is this going? I mean are we about to shag or…?”

                     Watching Sansa’s face straighten into contemplation, her brows furrowing just slightly, shouldn’t turn Margaery on further. She’s already going though, and now there are few things Sansa could do that she wouldn’t be attracted to. After what feels like a miniature eternity, Sansa shakes her head. It’s on the tip of Margaery’s tongue to excuse Sansa from the room so she can take care of her needs herself when Sansa kisses the top of her forehead and utters, “I don’t want a shag. Margaery, I want to make love to you.”

                     Margaery’s breath audibly hitches. Of all the things Sansa could have said—a rejection, a yes, anything—Margaery had not expected those words.

                     ‘Make love’. Even at their happiest, they had never used that phrase. Sex was sex. Teasing. Fast. Playful. A way to express their feelings, yes, but more never so plainly.

                     Of course Sansa grounds her again before her mind can take off in any one direction. She presses her forehead against Margaery’s, eyes shut, soft breaths. Her hand reaches for the back of Margaery’s neck keeping her in place.

                     A moment passes between them. Finally Sansa breathes, “You have to say something, Margie. Do you want me to make love to you?”

                     She pulls back just enough that she can look into Margaery’s eyes. Sansa’s eyes are near midnight blue, a far cry from their typical piercing, vibrant color.

                     Gods, she needs it. She wants Sansa to be with her. More than just physically. No one has ever pulled at her heart strings like Sansa when she was Alayne. A year of emotional connection is impossible to erase no matter the circumstances. The tightness in her chest, the feeling of skipping on air whenever Alayne called her ‘babe’, the ease of laughter, the comfort of silence has all been reforming with Sansa. After her last debacle, she’s scared to use the ‘L” word to define all of it. And still she wants to give Sansa everything.

                     With her eyes closed, she nods. “Yes. Yes, Sansa, I want to make love with you.”

                     She clasps her hands on Sansa’s cheeks and pulls her in for a hard kiss, catching the younger woman off guard. Only for a moment. Sansa wraps one arm around Margaery’s lower back to steady them. The fingers on her other hand slowly skim up Margaery’s neck until she reaches her jaw and gently nudges Margaery’s head to tilt.

                     In the moment all Margaery wants is to be closer to Sansa. Her hands drift lower down her sides and on to her hips. When Sansa’s tongue brushes hers, she deepens the kiss. Her tongue brushes then entangles with Sansa’s, earning a shudder from Sansa.

                     The need to breathe becomes too much for Sansa and she’s forced to draw back. Margaery so caught up staring at the beauty before her, she doesn’t realize Sansa is rolling her shirt up until Sansa pulls it over her head, tossing it carelessly to the floor. The first thing that catches her eyes is the tattoo. Her name still etched onto Sansa’s skin. She wonders if Sansa regrets it after everything. Of course she doesn’t.

                     Sansa looks back at Margaery, worrying her teeth on her bottom lip. Margaery pinches the hem of her shirt between her fingers and lifts it over her head. It quickly joins Sansa’s somewhere on the floor. She runs her fingers through her hair and out of her face a split second before bowls her over for another kiss. Margaery lands on her back with a soft thud against the mattress, just beneath the edge of the pillow. Fingers twist into Margaery’s hair as Sansa’s weight settles on top of her. Sansa radiates with energy, and yet she keeps the pace leisurely as she presses a soft kiss to Margaery’s lips before moving down to her neck.

                     Nails scrape against the swell of her boobs and she remembers that she’s still wearing a bra. So is Sansa. She reaches behind Sansa and unhooks the clasps. She rubs her hand over the exposed skin of her back. Sansa’s muscles flinch and contract with every movement as Sansa continues to lavish her neck. After a little time, Margaery’s patience wears thin. She pushes the straps down Sansa’s arms as far as they will go and flexes her thigh to urge her up.

                     With a huff, Sansa sits up and rids herself of the bra. Margaery follows her up, kissing her lips, then her cheek, then her jaw. She sighs, taking in Sansa’s scent again. Her hands drop to Sansa’s waistband. They trace the edges of her leggings to tease her. Sansa is sensitive to the barely there brush of fingers against her abdomen. Margaery smirks when Sansa’s arms falter around her in her attempt to remove Margaery’s bra when her fingers bump right over the center of her abdomen beneath the waistband.

                     Just as Sansa removes her bra, Margaery tugs the leggings down to her knees. Because of the way Sansa straddles her, they’re stuck there. Sansa chuckles as she pulls a leg over Margaery to get off the bed. She yanks down her pants, followed by her underwear and socks.

                     The last time Margaery had seen the wolf on Sansa’s back, it had been just a wolf. A pretty piece of art fit Alayne’s personality well. Now it was so much more. It was an alpha. The symbol of Stark power. When Sansa turned around to return to her, she was faced with another shock. Where her sword tattoo used to lead to bare skin, it now led to a small thatch of red hair. Really she shouldn’t be surprised, but seeing the change was slightly jarring.

                     Before she can be called out for staring too long, Margaery averts her eyes slowly upward, taking in all of Sansa. Her heart pounds faster. Her gut coils in anticipation as she feels herself grow damper. Red hair flared out like some 70’s pin up and Margaery can’t think of anything sexier right now.

                     Sansa clambers back into her lap and kisses Margaery again, soft and gentle. She slowly nudges her backward to lay down, but Margaery catches herself and holds them in place before drawing back. Sansa obliges the desire to stay in their current position and changes strategies. She starts massaging Margaery’s tits. Margaery tosses her head back to fight off a groan. She knows her nipples are hardening and wants to beg Sansa to pinch her or take her in her mouth. Anything to relieve the tension.

                     Placing a quick kiss on Margaery’s shoulder, Sansa finally obliges her. She dips her head down and wraps her lips around Margaery’s nipple. She sucks lightly and her tongue brushes over it while her fingers tweak the other nipple. This time she can’t fight back the groan. The noise that escapes her invigorates Sansa. She sucks a little deeper, pinches a little harder and Margaery moans a little louder. Despite still wearing her own pants, Sansa’s leg moves over Margaery’s pussy. The awkward angle doesn’t give much satisfaction though.

                     The attention to her chest becomes too much and Margaery pushes at Sansa’s shoulders to back her away. She almost giggles at the adorable frown on Sansa’s face and the small whine she releases when she gives Margaery space, but her hand stays firmly on the side of her ribs, covering the word “strong” in her tattoo. Margaery gives her a reassuring smile and quick kiss to the forehead before throwing her legs over the edge of the bed and peeling off her pants and underwear in one motion.

                     She swings back around for Sansa to knock her back into the bed, but Margaery uses their combined momentum to them and switch positions. Sansa’s flaming locks splay out and her hands fall to Margaery’s waist. Her goofy lopsided grin grows when Margaery adjusts her thigh between Sansa’s leg. She runs her fingers through Margaery’s hair as Margaery leans down to kiss her again.

                     She cups Sansa’s boob, adoring the way Sansa moans and tightens her grip, one hand sliding down to Margaery’s ass. As Sansa writhes beneath her to create friction, Margaery works her way down Sansa’s body to to her stomach. She occasionally nips just to keep Sansa on edge.

                     Suddenly Sansa jolts up, taking Margaery with her. Her face is flushed and little beads of sweat drip down her neck, making Margaery aware of the sweat on her own back. Sansa kisses her cheek and shoulder chastely before murmuring. “I said I was going to make love to you, baby. Don’t cheat me.”

                     Margaery sighs into the next kiss, letting Sansa tilt her head with the hand on the back of her neck. Sansa repositions them and reclines Margaery onto the bed. Margaery pulls Sansa’s leg over her waist and grasps the back of her thigh.

                     Once Sansa settles over her, Margaery flexes her thigh upward to press into against Sansa. Sansa grinds down in response, dragging her thigh against Margaery’s labia. Satisfied with the position, Sansa hovers back over Margaery, bracing herself on her elbows to hump her. Her fingers dance around Margaery’s clit in a waltz: slow and tender and never crossing the median border between ecstasy and teasing.

                     Frustration begins to build, causing Margaery to dig her nails into Sansa thigh in a vain attempt to force her to give Margaery what she wants. The nails of her other hand scrape along Sansa’s spin, only stopping at the bottom of the tattoo before Margaery drags them back up. Sansa’s back arches and she finally dips her fingers where Margaery needs her the most.

                     She circles Margaery’s entrance with one finger then moves down a little down Margaery’s body for a better angle. The red hair halo has vanished and Margaery look down to see her lover lost in desire. Sansa softly kisses the bottom of her stomach before inserting two fingers. Her pace starts slow as she strokes Margaery’s pussy.

                     “I love you Margaery,” Sansa murmurs. She quickens her pace and adds her thumb to circle Margaery’s clit. Margaery writhes against her hand, seeking that perfect position. The pressure builds quickly. The heat pooling within her has reached its boiling point when Sansa presses her thumb down harder. “I love you,” Sansa repeats.

                     “Alayne,” Margaery cries out seconds before she comes. She rides out her orgasm against Sansa’s still twitching fingers until she can’t stand the sensation anymore.

                     As she begins putting herself back together, she’s vaguely aware of warm wetness on top of thigh.

                     Sansa has collapsed next to her, head turned to the side. While she regains her own breath, Margaery watches Sansa’s back expand and contract to the pace of her breathing. There’s pink scratches on her back and sweat formed over her shoulder blades. The room reeks of sex.

                     Perhaps it was the months long gap between the endeavors, but Margaery felt as though she could walk on air. Sex with Alayne had always felt marvelous but this was something else. More than passion and ecstasy. Her featherlight feelings sink like an anchor just as quick as they came.

                     She’d called Sansa Alayne. Right in the middle of sex. It made Margaery feel sick, but when she said it, it had felt right. Familiar. Immediately after this realization, Sansa flips over and grins at Margaery. “Hey,” she pants, pressing a kiss to Margaery’s shoulder before going into the lips.

                     “Hey,” Margaery murmurs back.

                     Sansa braces an elbow next the other side of Margaery’s neck to bring them face to face. “That was pretty good, yeah?” she practically giggles.

                     “Yeah, it was,” Margaery agrees. “Did you…?”

                     Sansa purses her lips and nods. “I’m surprised I was able to hold off that long,” She twirls a strand of Margaery’s hair around her finger. “I had to keep reminding myself that I wanted to see you come undone first. You’re so beautiful when you just let go. I mean, you’re always gorgeous babe, but when you let me see you like that…” Sansa laughs breathlessly. “Wow. I never thought I’d have this again.”, she presses her nose against Margaery’s neck.

                     “I didn’t mean to call you Alayne,” Margaery eventually mumbles as she strokes Sansa’s hair.

                     “Hmmm?” Sansa hums against her.

                     “I suppose it all just blended together in my mind and the wrong name just slipped out. Sorry,” Margaery looks behind rather than at Sansa when Sansa finally turns her head.

                     “What are you talking about?” Sansa gives her a half grin. Of course she hadn’t been listening.

                     “I called you Alayne a few minutes ago and…” she’s cut off by a strong kiss.     

                     “Baby, you can call me whatever you like. I am Alayne, just like I’m Sansa. If you feel more comfortable with that, then call me Alayne. Call me both. I don’t care. I just want you beside me, just like this,” Sansa presses their foreheads together.

                     Margaery doesn't say anything. Instead she kisses her softly, wrapping one thigh around Sansa's waist. Sansa knows exactly what she means.


	35. Ambush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So my "angry" dialogue really sucks. Fair warning. Also there's violence in this chapter.

Loras’s head falls backward as he roars with laughter. How can he be so calm? How can any of them be anything but terrified, a nervous wreck like Margaery? Everyone else, from Sansa to Brienne even to Podrick Payne, acts as if today was another ordinary day. It’s as though they’re pretending the two vans are going to a carnival, not to ambush the most protected home in King’s Landing.

                     Sansa and Margaery had talked about several things the morning after making love. Sansa’s tattoos, whom Podrick had been to her, what everyone was to do during the attack. Sansa made it clear she wanted Margaery as uninvolved in the action as possible. If and when things got dicey, Margaery was to stay with Brienne. Initial arguments were useless, so Margaery had relented and told Sansa she would let Brienne protect her. She had no intention of following through, but she would put on a show for Sansa’s sake.

                     Of course, Sansa still didn’t know of Loras’s plans for Brienne. Hopefully she never would. In an ideal world, they could waltz in, find Cersei lounging on her couch, make her confess, and send her to prison. Loras would never have the opportunity to take out Sansa’s personal protector.

                     There was no such thing as an ideal world. They all know it’s going to be bloody. That some of them will die, certain people with greater odds than others. Her only hope was that Loras would focus primarily on the invasion and not on his vendetta. After the way his eyes lit when she told him Brienne would be on their team, Margaery doubts his priorities. If he was throwing caution to the wind, Margaery would be just as well off fending for herself as having a bodyguard.

                     A few miles from the Lannister mansion, the vans veer into opposite directions. Jon, Obara, Oberyn, Arya and Gendry are the bait. The bulk of Cersei’s security will go after them. At least that’s the hope.

                     Margaery recognizes the route as the scenic route Joffrey’s funeral train took to the sept for his ceremony. It will buy them an additional four minutes while the rest of the ambush takes place.

                     The car quiets to near silence. Jon’s radio is on, so everything he hears plays through the car’s speakers. When they put their headsets on, they’ll hear everything from their partners on the other end as well. The radio crackles and all there is is Jon’s steady breathing.

                     “Clear,” Gendry whispers. “The cameras are trained on the fence. We’ll have under thirty seconds before they come out guns blazing.”

                     There’s some shuffling and then Jon’s voice asks, “Ready?” Both he and Gendry grunt before there’s a slight knock against the fence. A second later there’s a thud on the ground and they repeat the process two more times.

                     “I got you,” Gendry says. Jon takes a breath before Gendry grunts again and then the much clearer sound of him jumping to the ground plays through the car.

                     “Shit,” Jon mutters. He runs. Voices shout at them to come out with their hands up. The first shot rings out. After that it’s impossible to discern

                     “We need to go. Now,” Sansa orders. Loras and Brienne jump out of the car, now parked in front of the Lannister mansion. Margaery raises her headset over her ears and scrambles out too.  Sansa hands her a gun, the smallest of the arsenal while she carries one of the automatics.

                     “Baby, stay by Brienne.”

                     Margaery nods. She’s about to do just that when Sansa grabs her shoulder. “I love you. Don’t forget that.”

                     The words are on her lips. ‘I love you too. We’re going to get out of here, me and you.’ She never gets the chance to say them. Sansa pushes her along. The four of them sprint to the front door. With a swift kick, Brienne busts it in. Wood splinters off the door frame.

                     Through the headset, the gunfire slows down. “Get back here you fucking cowards!” Arya shouts from a distance.

                     “Damn it! That fucker stings!” Obara shouts before firing off another round from her weapon. Margaery is listening through Obara’s channel.

                     Brienne pops the safety off her massive gun. “Heads up Tyrells. They’ll be on us in twenty seconds.”

                     Their pounding footsteps give them away well before any Lannisters are in sight. Loras ducks behind a column. Sansa gets as low as she can underneath fine mahogany chair. Margaery hides behind the Grand piano with Brienne, her back additionally covered by the bookshelf to her back.

                     Sansa turns to Brienne and nods once. Brienne raises her gun just over the top of the piano and fires a series of shots. The gunfire finds its mark. One of the detail shouts in agony, another curses. Gunshots whiz both ways. Loras jerks behind the post again barely avoiding a shot to the head. Margaery doesn’t dare fire herself. Not until she has no choice.

                     Over the shouting between Sansa and Loras, the yelling of the Lannisters and the occasionally scream when one is taken down, Margaery barely makes out Podrick’s overriding signal as he tells them both Obara and Gendry were grazed by bullets, but they’re moving further in.

                     “Marge shoot!” Loras yells. He jostles through his vest for more ammo. Margaery twists her head around to peer over the top of the piano. One of the Lannister men has realized that there’s no more gunfire coming from Loras’s side. He bum-rushes the post. There’s no time for Margaery to think. She raises her arms and fires four consecutive shots. One of the bullets hits the man in the leg. He crumples to the floor, reaching for his thigh, which is trickling with blood. Still, he fires two shots toward Margaery, both missing a foot behind her.

                     One bullet is all it takes for Loras to take the man’s life. While he was distracted, Loras reloaded. His two missed shots gives Loras the time to aim and fire a close range shot into the side of his head. The man falls limp instantly, a pool of blood growing around his head. There’s not enough time to comprehend what happened. “Fallback! Reload!” A Lannister shouts.

                     Within seconds, Sansa, Brienne, Loras and herself are left in the room.

                     “Why would they just leave like that?” Margaery accepts Brienne’s hand to get up. Through her headset, she can hear the rumble of gunfire raging.

                     “You heard them. Reload. They’ll have greater protection the deeper we go,” Brienne leads them.

                     Through Obara’s mic, Margaery can hear Jon shouting at Oberyn to take his shot. The gunfire has died down again. “Father, kill him! Take justice!”

                     Oberyn is too far to hear his response, but he yells. “You raped her and murdered her children! Say it! You raped my sister and murdered her children!”

                     He repeats it over and over again.

                     “Sniper! Dive!” Loras shouts. He tackles Margaery to the ground. A litany of bullets scream right through the place she stood a moment before. Within seconds Brienne has fired off three shots. A body plummets to the floor, dressed in riot gear. “That’s from the police station. She’s got inside help,” Loras helps Margaery off the floor after doing another scan of the hall.

                     “There’s activity on the second floor, boss,” Podrick overrides the signal again.

                     Suddenly an eardrum shattering screech pierces Margaery’s ears. She tears off her headset and doubles over. Sansa can hear it too, apparently. She winces and presses one hand over her ear piece.

                     “We’ve got to move on,” Brienne leads them on once more. “We can’t do anything for them, not if we intend to survive ourselves.”

                     More gunshots follow accompanied by Obara’s inaudible yelling. It’s not until she cries out, “That was my papa, you bastard! You fucking bastard!” that Margaery realizes there’s a man down. Oberyn. Sickening squishing noises, like a knife plunging into flesh, make it through the speaker. More undiscernible shouting, footsteps growing louder. Margaery is so lost in what’s happening with the B team that she can’t focus on the mission.

                     “Go! Go! I got her! You two go!” Gendry shouts. Obara belts another heart crippling shriek. “Son of bitch,” Gendry mutters. He cocks his gun again. That’s all Margaery can take. She throws her headset onto the floor at the base of the stairs. There’s too much distraction, which she can ill afford.

                     They move up the stairs in a line with Sansa in the middle and Margaery at the rear. They had expected the barrage of bullets that Brienne stops one step short of walking into. What they hadn’t expected was the stampede of soldier, six of them. Although they each have their weapons drawn, their bullets are powerless. They ricochet off of the new found body armor the Lannister mobsters have put on.

                     Two tackle Brienne over the side of the bannister. A vase and shelf bust in the process. Loras manages to fire a shot through the skull of one assailant. Margaery side steps Sansa and attempts to shoot another, but her arms shake too violently, throwing her aim off. He flashes his teeth in a sadistic grin as he rushes down the steps.

                     For a moment, Margaery forgets her training. The lessons about martial arts, momentum against her enemy, and blocking punches are worthless. Eyes clenched together, she braces her self for an impact. One that never comes. A second later there’s another crash. The bannister is gashed through, wood splintering off of the parts that remain standing. Loras gains leverage on the man he threw over the edge, socking him over and over. Blood droplets spurt from his lips with each swing Loras takes.

                     “Margaery duck!” Sansa screams.

                     The moment Margaery looks up, she’s sent careening backward down the stairs. She loses her balance and tumbles to the bottom. Another bullet is fired. The sound  rouses Margaery from her daze in time to move her head just before the guard’s pounds the floor. He hovers over her and Margaery’s instincts finally kick in. She bends her knee and thrusts up, nailing him in the balls. The man whines and stumbles back.

                     With an opening, Margaery slides from underneath him and gets to her feet. He’s still doubled over as she reaches for her gun and cocks the trigger. This time there’s almost no shake. The instant he looks up she fires. The close proximity enables her better aim. With his mouth open, she watches the bullet rip through the back of his throat. The next one has more of a downward angle. She doesn’t see it exit, but the way he grabs at his throat tells her it fulfilled its jobs.

                     Blood fills his mouth as he struggles to breathe. Horrendous gargling noises begin.

                     Margaery tears her eyes away. It’s too much. He makes a last ditch lunge for her, but she easily sidesteps him. Her eyes catch Sansa, fist to fist with another lackey. He tackles her against the stairs, and jabs her in the face.

                     Another gun fires, but Margaery doesn’t register the sound. She sprints up the stairs and jumps on the man’s back while he reaches to grab Sansa’s throat. His full weight collapses on top of Sansa, his wrist audibly crunches as it bends awkwardly into the wooden stair.

                     “Damn you, cunt” he grimaces. He flings Margaery off his back. She tumbles down the steps and lands on her knees. She cradles the back of her skull to feel for blood. There’s none. She reaches for her gun again, but it’s not in the holster.

                     “Won’t boss lady be proud when I bring her the bodies of Stark and her bitch,” he stalks down the stairs, shaking his limp wrist. Behind him, Sansa unconscious lays across three stairs.

                     “Loras!” Margaery shouts while she frantically looks around for her gun. It had slid through the open bannister, a mere five feet from where Loras kneels. His gun is aiming at Brienne and a Lannister mobster. His shot. A moment where he can kill Brienne and the enemy to make it look like a complication of battle.

                     His eyes carousel from Margaery to the gun on the floor to Brienne and her battle. She’s clearly losing now, having taken a low blow. He cocks his gun.

                     The Lannister man reaches the bottom of the stairs. She’s out of time. Margaery pushes herself off of her hands and knees and dives for the gun. Her hand lands on the barrel a split second before his reaches the handle.

                     He’s stronger than her. He nearly has the gun out of her grasp when Margaery does the only thing she can think to do. She raises her elbow and smashes him in the face. He lets go and Margaery snatches it. She sits up and fumbles to turn the gun around. It’s pointed toward her own calf when a burly hand covers her own and forced her index finger inward. Her leg stings and then burns. She loses her hold on the gun. The pain is too much.

                     Blood pools around her leg. The man, now standing above her with his toothy grin, laughs. “Pathetic,” he mutters. Margaery sees the joy in his eyes as he pulls the trigger, certain this is her end. Except a bullet never fires. The chamber is empty.

                     His smile flips into a confused frown. He pulls the trigger again. Two gun shots echo each other, and neither comes from Margaery’s gun. Nevertheless, the man stumbles backward. His body armor absorbs the bullet, but it still distracts him enough to look down. A second bullet finds flesh in his neck, then a third in his head. Margaery swings her head around as her hands hold pressure to the hole in her leg that is drowning in blood. Brienne stands over her own victim, but Loras runs toward Margaery, gun in hand.

                     He reaches backward into his backpack, which only he and Brienne carry, and digs without taking his eyes off of Margaery. “Hold that tight sis. I got you.”

                     “Margaery!” Sansa shouts. She runs to Margaery, sliding to a stop on her knees. Her hand shakes as reaches for the wound and presses against it.

                     “Over the top. It’s not in an artery, but we have to cut off the blood flow,” Loras pulls his bag around and throws it to the ground, unsuccessful in his previous attempt at digging.

                     Sansa squeezes Margaery’s calf above the wound. Margaery smiles to show a brave face. It does nothing to ease the worry etched in Sansa’s eyes.

                     “I’m fine Sansa. Or I’ll be fine. It’s barely more than a scratch,” Margaery says. Truth be told, she’s just as concerned about the bruising beneath Sansa’s eye and small gash of dried blood on her forehead.

                     Finally Loras pulls out a band. He scoots to Margaery’s side and slips one end to the inside of Margaery’s calf, six inches above the bullet’s entrance. He loops the ends into a bow and pulls tight. Margaery winces at the pressure. Sansa holds her back, giving her support.

                     “You’re so strong Margaery. You’re okay. You have to be okay,” Sansa mumbles into her hair. Margaery nods in assurance, even though she’s terrified.

                     “Can you move your leg?” Loras grabs her under the arms and pulls her up to her feet. He grabs the bag off the floor. “How much can you walk?”

                     A boom, louder than any gunshot before, halts them. Margaery flinches forward reflexively, putting too much pressure on her leg and stumbling into Sansa. Sansa manages to catch her and keep herself upright. In quick succession there’s the thud of a body hitting the ground, followed by a succession of bullets from Loras and another thud.

                     On the ground behind Loras lay Brienne. The force of the weapon had ripped through her body armor on her chest. Dark blood bubbles up as Brienne gasps for breath. Sansa hobbles herself and Margaery to her side. Loras is already there holding her hand. She won’t make it.

                     “You saved me. Why did you do that?” Loras asks. “You weren’t meant to protect me.”

                     Brienne smiles, then wheezes. “Do…Do you think he’ll forgive…me?”

                     Loras nods, fighting back tears even while Sansa and Margaery can’t. “He won’t hold it against you. I promise.”

                     Brienne shuts her eyes and takes a deep breath. “Take care of her,” she gargles. She still breathing when Loras directs them away. “I’ve got her,” he tells Sansa. He picks Margaery up off the ground and cradles her in his arms to carry her up the stairs.

                     Four steps from the top, a ruckus erupts in the hallway. No gunshots, but shouting and the sound of flesh hitting wood and steel. Margaery whips her head around to check on Sansa, but Sansa is taking off after a yellow blur that disappears behind the wall at the top of the steps. Loras jumps the last steps two at a time and puts Margaery down.

                     “Go after her. You’re safest with her,” Loras orders. He draws his gun, goes to third step, just behind the coverage of a wall, and prepares to fire at whomever comes around the corner of the hall.

                     “Loras I can’t!” Margaery hobbles at the top.

                     Shots come from the hallway, busting holes in the wall below.

                     “Damnit! Run Marge!” Loras bellows.


	36. One Shot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas! Also, I'm trying to get better about apologizing for my work, so I am not going to apologize for this.

It’s nearly impossible to walk, let alone run. Each step is a new jab of pain searing through her leg. She’s able to push herself on, though, until she accidentally puts too much weight on her bad leg and crumples to the floor.

                     All she hears is gunshots. Faster, closer, louder. They come from every direction and there’s no escape.

                     Breathless and close to tears, Margaery drags herself to the wall. She’s not even sure if she took off in the right direction. She whimpers as she pulls her wounded leg toward her chest. Loras’s makeshift tourniquet is still holding its own, but Margaery’s leg is becoming more and more hampered by the burning pain as the bullet lodges deeper.

                      She can’t stop here, not in an open hallway where she vulnerable from every direction. She needs to find Sansa.

                     Margaery crawls along side of the wall, following it. Her injured leg lags behind and Margaery is barely able to drag it along. The shag rug scrapes along her calf, leaving a faint trail of nearly dried blood.

                     Toward the end of the hall, the sound of the gunshots ahead of her has become much louder than those she abandoned at the staircase. A wisp of deep red hair sticks out of the room in next to her. Relieved to have finally found Sansa, Margaery crawls forward at a reinvigorated pace.

                     A barrage of bullets whiz out of the room and plaster the hallway wall. That’s enough to stop Margaery in her tracks. A few rounds return fire back into the room, before the chamber barrel locks up, signaling that it’s empty. “Son of a bitch,” Sansa curses.

                     “Sansa!” Margaery whispers as loudly as she can without making it obvious to the enemy that she’s there.

                     “Margaery? Baby, what are you doing?” Sansa whispers back. More bullets whir between them.

                     “Come on Stark! We both know you’re out! If you surrender, we can play nice, I promise. Cersei always saw potential in you. I think she’d even be willing to take you under her wing if you give in before it gets too ugly,” Jaime Lannister calls out his offer.

                     Of course Jaime is involved. He never set off alarms quite like Cersei did, but he was no saint either. His presence is evidence enough that he has some level of involvement with the mob, even if it’s only as his sister’s protector.

                     Sansa scoffs. She locks the chamber of another gun and pulls the trigger, but that one’s empty as well.

                     Jaime tuts. “We have your sister. She’s not dead. Yet.”

                     Sensing a continuation in the lull, Margaery scoots closer to the edge of the door. She can see Sansa now, head leaned back against her barricade of a couch, legs sprawled out in front of her. After a moment of contemplation, Sansa’s gaze falls on Margaery.

                     “How many?” Margaery mouths.

                     Sansa holds up one finger. Margaery scoots a few inches from the edge and opens her vest. She gestures to the ammo, asking whether Sansa’s gun will work with what Margaery has left.

                     Sansa nods. She slides the gun to Margaery.

                     There’s a thud in the room, then a clap. “Good choice, Stark. It would have been such a pain to explain why there was brain matter all over Myrcella’s volleyball trophies.” Jaime’s steps get closer and closer.

                     As quickly as she can Margaery reloads the gun. Jaime’s steps pause the moment the chamber clicks shut.

                     Sansa mouths “Go!”. Limp leg and all, Margaery spins to the doorway and holds down the trigger without much of an idea of where she’s shooting.

                     Jaime’s eyes blow wide. He steps back in surprise, but there’s not time for escape. Bullet after bullet strikes him, splatters forward out of his abdomen and arm as he instinctively tries to block the bullets. Then his body crumples to the floor.

                     Margaery doesn’t know if he’s dead or alive, but there’s no time to let her mind linger on the ethical question of what she’s done.

                     Sansa scrambles out of the room, looping an arm around Margaery’s shoulder before Margaery can even get to her feet. She helps Margaery up and takes the gun. “Nice shot babe.”

                     Sansa leads her to the end of the hall, then right. “She shouldn’t be too far. There was no where else for her to run to.”

                     “The plan won’t work anymore,” Margaery hisses as her leg grazes the wall. She’s slowing Sansa down. Had Sansa left her, she might have already found Cersei’s hiding place. Sansa readjusts her hold on Margaery.

                     “Sure it will. I shoot her in the face, then we run like hell to get whomever is left and get out,” Sansa rebuts.

                     Margaery gives her a pointed look. Much as she tries to hide it, the strain of Margaery’s weight is visible in the lines on Sansa’s forehead. “If it comes to that, I want you to leave me. Don’t worry about me.”

                     Sansa halts without warning. “That’s not an option. We leave together or we stay together. I’m not abandoning you.” She starts pulling Margaery along with her again, as if that’s that and there’s no if ands or buts.

                     Except Margaery has several on her tongue. She settles for, “I can’t run. I can barely walk, or have you not noticed?”

                     Sansa stops outside of a large room. She unravels her arm from around Margaery. “We’ll figure it out.” She cocks the gun chamber. “Stay here.” Finger looped around the trigger, Sansa heads into the room.

                     Margaery leans against the wall to relieve the strain on her leg. She’s sure Sansa will be gone just a moment, but she takes the opportunity to shut her eyes and attempt to clear her thoughts.

                     That is her mistake. Her guard let down, she doesn’t have time to react when the footsteps ascend on her.

                     Before Margaery can spin around, the cool metal butt of a gun smashes into the side of her skull. “That’s for my son!” The blow sends Margaery into the wall, blinding her from the force of the blow. The warm trickle of blood begins immediately, but the next blow comes sooner, in the exact same spot, with grater force. “My brother!” Cersei Lannister screams, barely louder than Sansa’s own screams for Margaery.

                     Margaery crumples to the ground, but someone grabs Margaery’s hair and yanks her up. Margaery yelps as her neck is forced back. A pair of stronger hands pin her arms against her back.

                     “Let her go!” Sansa shouts, her shoes squeaking against the floor as she skids to a stop.

                     Cersei cackles behind Margaery. “You’re not in a position to make demands, little girl.” The cold metal barrel of a gun presses lightly against Margaery’s throat. It draws a path down the column of her throat, stopping right over her pulse point.

                     “Tell me, Ms. Tyrell, how is your grandmother? The last time I saw her, she was in quite the conundrum,” Cersei whispers in her ear, mocking her.

                     Margaery tries to jerk out of the stronghold, but only succeeds in tightening the grip Cersei’s lackey has on her. For good measure, Cersei kicks Margaery’s wounded leg. Margaery barely manages to stay upright.

                     Cersei lets go of Margaery’s hair, but keeps the gun in position. Sansa points her gun straight at her, trying to lock an aim on Cersei. But Cersei has Margaery as a human shield. Sansa’s eyes lock with Margaery’s and the first thing Margaery notices is the fear. Utter terror that there’s nothing she can do to save Margaery and the flash of desperation to do just that.

                     “I should have figured she was with you from the start. I’d heard the rumors: the Stark girls lived. I thought you and bloody sister would have been too stupid to pull it off. Fault me for underestimating a pathetic girl and her wild sister,” Cersei begins. “It’s no matter now. I won’t make the same mistake twice.”

                     “All I need is two shots to kill you and your henchman,” Sansa threatens.

                     “All I need is one to take everything you hold dear. Again.” Cersei presses the gun harder into Margaery’s neck. Margaery shuts her eyes and takes a deep breath. How would Loras suggest she get out of this? In her own element, Margaery could have talked her way out. At the very least, she could exploit Cersei’s disdain for her enough to distract her and give Sansa some sort of opening. Except the only person Cersei couldn’t stand more than Margaery was standing less than ten feet away with her own arsenal.

                     “It’s nice to see how much you’ve grown,” Cersei continues, stepping around Margaery to taunt Sansa, though the gun in her hand never leaves its mark on Margaery’s throat. For good measure, her lackey wrenches Margaery’s arms farther back. A loud popping sound causes Margaery jump, not realizing it was her own shoulder until the pain rockets through her socket. “This victory would be far less enjoyable if you were the same pathetic little bird you always were. Watching everything your father built crumble was delicious enough. Your father should have learned to keep a better eye on his family’s company. Do you know how good it felt to light your home in flames along with everyone in it?”

                     “I imagine it felt similar to how I felt when I murdered your son,” Sansa clenches her jaw. If Cersei’s aim was to enrage Sansa into an act of stupidity, it as backfiring.

                     On the other hand, Cersei has little control over her own anger issues. She releases a frustrated groan. Without warning, she whips around and smacks Margaery upside the head with her gun. Margaery stumbles, unable to hold herself up. Only the henchman’s hold keeps her upright, but at the cost of further separation of her shoulder. Her shoulder feels as though it will rip off, forcing a scream out of Margaery.

                     Sansa’s gun fires a single shot, but nothing comes of it. Meanwhile, Margaery can feel blood dripping from the new gash on her head. Once more Cersei presses the barrel of the gun against Margaery’s temple. She yanks Margaery’s head up by her hair.

                      “Ah, ah Ms. Stark. You almost hit your little puppet.”

                     Despite blood trickling over her eye, Margaery can tell that Sansa is terrified of what Cersei could do. Her face isn’t stone cold composed, but there are traces of worry, her eyes becoming puffy.

                     “I’m not a puppet,” Margaery grimaces.

                     Cersei keeps her focus on Sansa. “I don’t know what you intended to gain from your little smear campaign. To ruffle my feathers? Or perhaps it was a little present for your whore for sparing you a few fucks. I certainly hope it was worth it, Ms. Tyrell. Your sick arrangement with Ms. Stark is the end of you.”

                     “That was all me, you bitch,” Margaery snaps, partially invigorated by the insults to her work, partially in the hope that it might provide the needed distraction. “Hard as it may be for you to believe, more people than an undead mafia were eager to talk about how your family screwed them over. Sansa, shoot her! The North needs you and Westeros needs to be free from the Lannisters. End this all now!”

                     She wonders if her brave face is convincing or if Sansa can see straight through her façade. Her pulse races from fear that this is it and she can feel her hands shaking. Truth be told, even her voice sounds shaky to her own ears.

                     There’s so much she wants to experience, places to go, people to meet, to visit the catacombs beneath Dragonstone, to taste Braavosi hen in Braavos. She wants to tell Sansa she loves her and to kiss her again. Each second that passes, another of these hopes slips away. Because she won’t make it alive. One way or another, Cersei will be her undoing. But she can still be Cersei’s downfall.

                     Cersei struts back into position behind Margaery. Her henchman grunts and pulls her up higher, forcing her to stand upright. She stares back at Sansa, begging for her to fire again. There’s no doubt in her mind whomever is pinning her could snap her neck in a heartbeat.

                     “You’ve destroyed everything your father ever built. No wonder he pushed you away after Robert’s death,” Sansa says, slowly inching forward, her demeanor no longer fearful.

                     Out of nowhere as the statement is, it gives Cersei pause. Sansa smirks, “You had my family killed because your business was falling apart. Now you’re on your last breath as a mafia and you still can’t let go of those tactics. History won’t remember you as a mafia boss. When I leave here, it won’t remember you at all.” There’s a twinkle in Sansa’s eye. Confidence, that Margaery assumes must mean she has an out.

                     Cersei scoffs. “Say goodbye to your whore.” Cersei presses the gun against Margaery’s temple. Sansa nods, setting off a rapid chain of events. Margaery drops all of her body weight, surprising the henchman. He maintains a tight grip on Margaery’s arms, so her shoulders wrench back again, further damaging the already dislocated one. However, the guard stumbles forward a step, lowering his head in the process. Simultaneously, Cersei pulls her trigger. The bullet hits her henchman in the side of the head, killing him instantly. Sansa’s gun fires a microsecond later, tearing through Cersei’s abdomen.

                     It’s not enough to send her to the ground though. Cersei re-aims her gun downward and fires a series of bullets. Most miss, but one strikes Margaery in the collar bone. Before Cersei has the opportunity to revel in her almost victory, a single bullet rockets through her head, a perfect shot from behind, exiting between her eyes.

                     Margaery grabs at the new wound in her arm as the blood starts streaming out. Laying down, she hears footsteps in both directions. Sansa shrieking her name, the footsteps that race past her, Arya screaming that they have to go.

                     She tries to call out, but the words won’t come. It’s only screams of pain as her shoulder burns, spreading deeper. She wonders if this is what Renly felt like. If perhaps he will be waiting to greet her. Would he tell her job well done. Would he hold her as she mourned the life she could never share with Sansa, as she would do the same for him and Loras?

                The wound on its own likely wouldn’t have been too bad, had she not already lost so much blood. As it is, the room begins spinning. More footsteps race by her, but they sound like the distant thumping of a bass, nothing more. Then Sansa is gone. She takes everything with her.


	37. Big Girls Don't Cry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1\. This chapter was named after the song playing as I posted this, because I can't come up original titles.  
> 2\. Feel free to call me out if this seems out of character for Sansa/Alayne. She has a pretty season 6/7 mindset when it comes to the mafia, but also loves Margaery more than anything, so these values often conflict. I'm hoping that I portrayed the proper balance.

The plan had worked perfectly. She had Margaery’s trust and Cersei had done exactly what Sansa had thought she would do. And then it all fell apart.

                     Her aim was just off and it proved costly. But Arya should have backed her up. No one else knew she was even there with a straight shot at Cersei’s head. Her presence was the only reason Sansa rolled the dice. She was ready to drop her gun if it meant Margaery would be safe. The North would be in good hands without her, but she couldn’t say if she could be a proper leader knowing she let Margaery be the sacrifice in a war that wasn’t her own. But Arya hesitated. Not a long hesitation but enough.  

                     For a fraction of a second, she thought it wouldn’t matter. Cersei had fired into Margaery’s bullet proof vest. A couple little bruises should have been the worst. Arya’s gun went off instantly afterward; blood splattered from Cersei’s skull and she fell, killed instantly. But then Margaery falls to the ground too. Fresh blood blooms underneath the vest, spreading up from underneath her vest.

                     There’s footsteps, voices from the stairway, radio static as someone calls for back up. None of that matters. Sansa screams Margaery’s name, her feet dash forward to where her girlfriend is rapidly losing consciousness.

                     Before she can reach her, Arya lunges forward, pushing Sansa backwards.

                     “We have to go! We can’t let them find us!” Arya hisses. Built of lean muscle, Arya’s strength overcomes the size advantage Sansa has on her, but only enough to reach a stalemate. She lowers her shoulder to drive Sansa backward. Fueled by fear and love, Sansa smacks Arya’s back and continues to scream her name. Margaery has to know she’s with her. That she’ll be alright.

                     Arya loses half a step, but it’s not true opening. Because Jon comes sprinting up the hall, nose bent unnaturally, bloody, his vest littered with bullet holes that the vest stopped. He stoops and lifts Sansa over his shoulder. No matter how much she kicks and flails, he’s impervious to her.

                     Arya darts ahead of them and flings open a door, which Jon follows into. It leads to a secret staircase; the one Sansa had specifically pointed out during the planning phase of the attack as a potential escape route.

                     “Go back!” Sansa punches at Jon’s shoulder. “Go back you asshole! Margaery’s hurt! She’s-she’s-” She can’t say the words, because she doesn’t want it to be true. She can’t think like that.

                     Jon sets her down on the top of the stairs. “SWAT are storming in right now. She’s going to get medical help here sooner than she will with us.”

                     “Hurry your asses! We don’t have time for tea and a chat!” Arya shove past them, but only runs down a few stairs.

                     She could go back. Two steps back and there would be nothing either of them could do with SWAT right on their tails like they said. Margaery wouldn’t have to be alone.

                     Jon was right though. There was nothing she could do for Margaery now except pray, as if the old gods gave a damn about her prayers. The mafia needs her, her family needs her.

                     So she runs after Arya, away from the thoughts of why Arya had hesitated, why she herself had felt the need to rub an extra grain of salt into Cersei’s gushing wound when Margaery’s life hung in the balance.  The basement is pitch dark except for the slither of day light breaking through the small square window up the short stair ramp to the back door, which leads to the back door.

                     The floor is littered with electrical wires, but they manage not to trip over any of them. Sansa gets ahead of Arya and throws the door open. The voices of SWAT members grow closer. In a matter of seconds they’ll be trapped in both directions. Arya sprints ahead of Sansa for the fence while Jon and Sansa stay on her heels. Arya jumps a foot in front of the fence and grabs the top to hoist herself over. Sansa gives her an extra boost, pushing her up by the thigh until Arya slings her leg over the side. Without warning Jon hoists Sansa up. Unlike Arya, she doesn’t’ have time to grab hold of the fence. He tosses her over. She lands hard on her knees, but other than the temporary sting of the ground crashing against her legs, she’s fine.

                     Several voices start yelling “Freeze!” “Drop your weapons!” “On your knees!” on Jon’s side of the fence.

                     “We need to go Arya. Now!” Sansa hisses. She stands up, waiting for Arya to join her.

                     Arya shakes her head. “What about Jon?”

                     “There’s nothing we can do for him. He knows what to do,” and he did. In all her planning, Sansa had made sure to instruct everyone on their stories, what they would say should this situation arise.

                     “He’s not like the rest of them! He’s not dead!” Arya stands under Sansa’s nose, daring her to fight. Another time she might have. Her words directly implicated Margaery and illustrated her thoughts on Margaery’s fate.

                     “For the good of the North, remember? Or do those words only matter to you when it's convenient?” The voices of SWAT car sirens screech in the distance, coming closer, approaching the house from behind. “Listen to me. Jon can handle himself. We need to go now, or we’ve accomplished nothing. All this carnage was for nothing but vengeance, and what good is vengeance when we reign destruction on ourselves?”

                     Sansa doesn’t wait for Arya to decide. She can’t let Podrick wait any longer and doesn’t have the time to wait for Arya either. She sprints across the street, letting her long legs carry her  down the alleyway and then to the right.

                     Arya sprints beside her, then ahead of her. She’d always been the more athletic of the two of them. Both of them pick up the pace when they see the nondescript white van in front of the paint shop. Arya throws open the back door and flings herself into the car. Sansa gets in the other side more elegantly.

                     “We’re it. Drive!” she commands Podrick.

                     The car roars to life and starts at a leisurely pace down the road. The slow pace enables herself and Arya to duck behind the seats and hide themselves from any SWAT  that might have spotted them and is a hell of a lot less suspicious than a white van flying down the road at 90 miles an hour.

                     It’s an agonizing ride. No one speaks throughout the drive. Sansa finally has time to process. She knew for sure Brienne was gone. Guilt had ridden her for weeks since Renly’s death. It was easier convincing Margaery it wasn’t Brienne’s fault than it was to convince Brienne the same. Selfishness had guided Sansa’s decision to pair Brienne with herself, Loras and Margaery. Not only would she be able to keep an eye on Margaery, but she knew Brienne would not abandon the Tyrells when all hell broke loose. She wasn’t sure she could say the same about anyone else on their squad.

                     When Arya had left, all she had was Jon. Brienne had been with them for a couple years by then, but always at a distance. Each of Petyr’s lessons began taking their toll. It was so much for a twenty-year-old to take on. Neither Jon nor Petyr understood the pressure she felt. Her father’s men—because at that point they were still her father’s men to her—had moved on from their pitiful glances and minimal eye contact to disdainful glares at her slow learning pace and the thought of taking orders from a woman.

                     Brienne understood though. Unlike Umber and Karstark and Manderly, Brienne had not been a friend of her father’s. She was her mother’s intern and stuck around out of a sense of duty to Catelyn to protect her daughters. She understood what it was like to be the only woman in a room full of men, to prove herself time and time again and never fully change the expectations of those around her.

                     She was a friend when Sansa had none. Sansa can’t help but wonder if she had been a friend in the end. Was she right to ask Brienne to watch out for Margaery? But of course, she hadn’t died for Margaery. She gave her life for Loras, whom Sansa had not said a word about. She sacrificed her life for a man who couldn’t have cared less if she had lived or died. That was the woman Brienne had been: so loving words could not express the depths of her care. It’s a sacrifice Sansa swears she will not forget.

                     Margaery isn’t the same; she’s still alive. She has to be alive. There’s too much they haven’t done or said. Sansa had just gotten her back, she’s not ready to say goodbye again.

                     By the time they get close to the headquarters, Sansa registers the dull stabbing pain in her wrist. It’s definitely broken. All the adrenaline pumping through her had kept the pain becoming an issue. Having subsided, there was nothing to distract her body from the pain, though it barely affected her mind.

                     Podrick rolls to a stop outside Petyr’s headquarters. Sansa opens the door and gets out. “Thank you Podrick. For everything.” She doesn’t look back at him.

                     Inside the compound, her mafia celebrates and drinks to their victory. They welcome her with a hearty chant of “Boss in the North” that dies down after two phrases once they comprehend the stone cold glare in her eyes. Arya follows in behind her. Within moments, she’s disappeared behind the crowd of confused Northerners.

                     “Get me Jaqen. Tell him he’s needed this very moment,” she commands. One of the lesser mafia members whose name she does not even know scurries down the hall to make the call. The only way she’ll have a chance to see Margaery is if she doesn’t look like she’s just returned from World War III.

                     As she waits for Jaqen, her men fill her in on the total losses of the battle. The losses weren’t as bad as she’d feared. Only Brienne and Oberyn had died on sight. From monitoring he communication waves, Manderly could say that Obara and Loras had only minor injuries. Gendry  had taken a few bullets, but mostly to the vest. He would be alright. They hadn’t heard directly from Margaery since half way through the ambush and Jon’s equipment had been shutoff among the orders for him to get on the ground.

                     Before Jaqen sees her, Maester Luwen insists on checking Sansa. Aside from her wrist, some scrapes and bruises, she’s fine. With some unsubtle urging, he quickly dismisses her to Jaqen’s hands to make her look like new. He tells her it’s a process that requires patience; she rushes him anyway. She needs to be by Margaery’s side. If this wasn’t a necessity, she wouldn’t have bothered.

                     Garlan Tyrell calls to say that police have called the family to the hospital. All they told him was Margaery was in critical condition in surgery and Loras was being questioned in his hospital room and that he had requested a lawyer. Sansa thanks him and tells him she’ll be there as soon as she can. Petyr’s personal lawyer, who has been filled in on the back up plan, is on his way to the hospital at Sansa’s beckon.

                     Four hours later, Sansa’s face is scrape free, her hair is dyed back to the black hair she dawns as Alayne Stone. She calls out a careless thank you to Jaqen, then dashes through the halls to the garage.

                     Most of the stragglers out and about jump out of her way; those that don’t are lucky not to be shoved against the wall in her haste. She easily swings opent he door to the garage. There stands Ygritte at the entrance, nonplussed by Sansa’s haste, arms loosely at her side. She doesn’t smile. She has as much reason to as Sansa does.

                     She folds her arms over her chance and stands her ground. “I’m coming. You can’t keep me out this time. I played your way with this ambush and I’ll be damned to do it again. I love them too.”

                     Sansa doesn’t hesitate. “Alright, okay. We’re leaving now.” She picks out the black Pontiac, the most discreet car in the lot. Ygritte gets in the passenger side and buckles in.

                     “There’s already a throng of media there. The police haven’t released an official statement, but hwen the most infamous suspected murderer and his kidnapped sister show up bloody at a hospital, news travels fast,” Ygritte informs her on the drive.

                     “I figured as much,” Sansa mutters.

                     “My phone has been haywire,” Ygritte pauses for a second and a small smile creeps across her face. “This is the sort of story Marge would be all over. First reporter there and would have somehow managed to get an inside scoop with one of the docs by now.”

                     Sansa smiles too, eyes trained on the road. It’s exactly what Margaery would have done. Maybe even snuck into the hospital, if she had the right resources.

                     “How was she? Arya said it was bad, but…” Ygritte let’s the thought trail off. Sansa is thankful for it. She lets her silence answer Ygritte’s question. Margaery was in bad shape. There is no denying that.

                     “Jon is okay. I’m not sure when we can get him out. We have to keep a low profile for awhile,” Sansa stops at the last red light before the hospital. From here she can see the plethora of news van, reporters and curious bystanders.

                     “We talked last night about all the possibilities. He insisted on it actually,” Ygritte pushes her bushy hair back out of her eyes. “We’re doing it right this time. I’m not afraid just cause things get a little tough. If a murderous mafia can’t keep us apart, what’s a little stay in prison?”

                     It hardly sounds like the joke Ygritte clearly intends it to be. From her perspective, there might be room to joke. Sansa doesn’t have that ability. She would gladly trade a life communicating through prison bars for Margaery not to be fighting for her life on an operating table. Regardless, Jon wasn’t going to have to suffer that fate either. He would just have to make it by for a little while.

                     The media and citizens gather to the main hospital entrance, so maneuvering to find a parking spot isn’t as difficult as it could have been. Reaching the hospital entrance, however, is another story. Police are attempting to part the crowds to either side so people who actually need to get into the hospital can do so, but there’s too many of them. The chaos surges once one of the cameramen recognize Alayne Stone and Ygritte slithering through the mass.

                     “Hey Ygritte! She dead in there?” he asks. Where Margaery would have been able to refrain Ygritte from doing something rash, Sansa doesn’t have the natural sixth sense with people, even friends, to know when she should intervene. Thus Sansa isn’t prepared for Ygritte to flip off the cameraman. The media flogs them immediately, shoving down bystanders to be able to shove their microphones and cameras into the women’s faces.

                     “Alayne! Alayne! Over here! What do you have to say the reports that Margaery was being sold off to the Lannisters?”

                     “Oy! What’s the latest update?”

                     “Did you know your bouncer was one of the people who kidnapped Ms. Tyrell?”

                     “Ygritte, did you know of a secret brainwashing scheme the your captors were using on Margaery?”

                     Bodies collapse around them, yet they continue to inch forward until a voice booms through the crowd and. White uniformed officers threaten reporters and with arrest and the crowd begins to ease. “Get, ye pack of wolves. Blood thirsty media hounds,” booms a familiar voice. It does nothing to further reduce the crowd, but it doesn’t matter. Sansa squeezes past the last onlooker, Ygritte right behind her, and come to a stop to be greeted by the owner of said voice.

                     “Officer Seaworth,” Sansa greets.

                      “Ms. Stone,” Officer Seaworth formally stands his ground. “Unless you have a legitimate injury, I’m afraid I will need to ask you to step away.”

                     Of all the officers on the force, besides Loras, Officer Seaworth had been Margaery’s favorite. He was bland and boring and rule-stickling officer, which made him the most predictable. Several times Margaery had bragged to Sansa about how she knew her way around Davos because she knew his buttons and how to appease him. But he won’t let her in. There’s no fooling him and Sansa knows she has nothing to bargain with. That doesn’t keep her from trying.

                     Sansa steps toward the officer, hands removed from her coat pockets so he can see she poses no threat. “Officer, I know this is an extreme situation, but I need to be in there. Both of us do,” she glances back at Ygritte.

                     Davos eyes Ygritte, clearly trying to place her face, but shakes his head. “I let you in, then the next one comes up claiming to know Ms. Tyrell, then the next. Family and patients only.”

                     “Please Officer Seaworth,” Sansa begs. She’s nearly two inches taller than him, so she has to look down to meet his eyes. “I need to be with her. She-I’ve heard it’s bad. I can’t stand out here and not know what’s going on. The moment she’s out of surgery, I need to be in that hospital room, holding her hand, telling her how much I love her because she needs to know I love her, she needs to know everyone she loves is with her.”

                     Davos shifts uncomfortably, torn between his sense of duty and empathy. He shakes his head, looking down at the ground. “I’m sorry.”

                     The glass door behind the officer swings open for Garlan to come through. He quickly jogs up to Stannis’s side. “Officer, what’s the trouble?”

                     Davos turns and looks up at Garlan, having to twist his neck further upward. “Nothing, sir. Only upholding the law.”

                     Garlan cocks his head to the side. “Then why haven’t you let these women come inside?” The way he asks is so innocent and genuine that Sansa almost questions if Margaery learned some of her tact from her older brother or vis versa.

                     “Family and patients only. I’m sorry, but these women are neither looking for medical attention nor are the Tyrells. Unless they have some other kinship within the hospital, I must follow my orders,” Davos defends, good soldier that he is.

                     “Pardon me, officer, but you are wrong. They are family. Perhaps not by blood, but my family sees them as Tyrells. It could mean a difference between life and death for my sister to know her best friend and the love of her life are here to support her,” Garlan debates. His eyes, a slightly darker shade of brown than Margaery’s, bore into the officer, digging their sad nature deeper within the man’s soul until…

                     Officer Davos drops his head in his hand. “Damn that girl. Always off on some wild goose hunt,” he waves Ygritte and Sansa through. “Ms. Stone and the friend stay with at least one Tyrell at all times. And no one else joins you.”

                     Garlan grins softly. “Thank you, Officer Seaworth. My family is greatful for your help in this dire time.” He leads Sansa and Ygritte into the hospital with long strides even Sansa struggles to keep up with without flat out jogging, down several halls to the emergency section of the hospital. Nurses scamper up and down the halls, shimmying by each other. Garlan slows his pace a little down here. “They won’t tell us exactly how many people they brought back from the Lannister mansion, but I would estimate at least 8.” Which would include at least a couple of Cersei’s men. They would be better off dying now, because one way or another, the mafia would ensure they would never make it to tell the true story of what happened today.

                     “It’s a madhouse down here. How did you time your breather just right to find us up there?” Ygritte says, a comfortable step behind Sansa and Garlan. The halls isn’t wide enough for them to walk three across and still give the doctors and nurses the room they need.

                     “Leonette saw you two on TV and called me. She’s staying with Grandmother in Highgarden. Someone had to and she volunteered,” Garlan explains right as they enter the waiting room for the ER. There’s a couple people who must be here for their own family emergencies. Alerie sits underneath the broken television, idly picking through an outdated home décor magazine. She immediately notices their entrance and sets aside her magazine to get up.

                     “I would have come sooner, I swear, I just couldn’t risk-,” before the words can spill out of her mouth too quickly, Alerie takes her hand as well as Ygritte’s.

                     “That doesn’t matter now. You are here, both of you,” Alerie assures them. They return to the little cove where the Tyrell clan has prepared to wait for the long haul. There’s a selection of snacks, multiple phone chargers, a few blankets stacked on the side table.

                     Sansa takes the chair beside Alerie, farther from the table. “Is there any news?”

                     Alerie shakes her head. “Only that she’s still in surgery. She’d already been in there for three hours by the time we got here from the airport. The nurse told me she doesn’t know how long it will be. It could be hours.” Alerie ducks her head and swipes at her eye.

                     “Hey. Mrs. Tyrell, Margaery will come out of this stronger. She’s got a lot to fight for,” Sansa comforts Mrs. Tyrell, holding her arm to have a touch to cling to.

                     It’s been years since Sansa had faith in anyone or anything. The old gods of her father and the new gods of her mother were silent when she’d prayed to them every night after her family’s murder. All she got in return were haunting nightmares and questions of “what had they done wrong?” Although she trusts her mafia, the plans of men deserve little faith. For years, she never had faith in herself.

                     Yet she’ hasn’t blindly thrown so much faith into one thing as she does into Margaery’s ability to fight for her life. Her girl friend is stronger than she knows, stronger than any of them do. Yes, Sansa is terrified. That doesn’t diminish her hope the least.

                     Ygritte, sitting in the chair on the corner, reaches across Sansa and Mrs. Tyrell to snag one of the magazines, not even caring to check which one she’s picked up. As she reads to distract herself, Sansa makes small talk with the Tyrells. “Garlan, you said your fiancé is still with Olenna, yeah? Is she doing better?”

                     Garlan shuts his eyes and leans forward slightly. He sighs as if trying to decide what the correct answer is. “She’s no worse. The doctors truly do not understand why she hasn’t woken yet. Her heart is strengthening and they haven’t found any other health concerns, granted her age.”

                     “Mace doesn’t like to talk about it nor would Margaery if I mentioned it to her, but I think in her way, Olenna is preparing us,” Alerie lowers her voice. Garlan fists his tight brown curls at the top of his head in a ball, his head sliding down his hand so that he tugs his hair up slightly.

                     “Mother, not now,” Garlan seems resigned to his grandmother’s fate, but hardly in the mood to discuss it. Not that Sansa blames him.

                     Ygritte shifts beside Sansa, her hand tapping Sansa’s shoulder to point her toward the entrance of the waiting room.

                     Sansa recognizes him as Mace Tyrell instantly. She’s never met the man, but he looks like all the recent photos of him that Margaery has shown her: stout, balding from the top of his head, red-faced even now. The main difference is the lack of a great, charming smile. Without the smile, he looks old, downtrodden.

                     Sansa stands up along with Garlan and Ygritte to bring him into their huddle. Initially Mace doesn’t notice Sansa and Ygritte, opting to go straight to his eldest son and vent. “Hard headed boy. Won’t say a damn word to me about what happened, not even a word! Doesn’t he understand it’s all for his benefit?! Oh, he’ll speak with the toad-stool lawyers, but not his own father! Seven help him, he’s a fugitive! How am I supposed to help him if he won’t tell me who broke him out of prison or what happened in that gods forsakened home!” Choosing to take his anger out on the poor magazines, Mace tosses them across the room. One barely misses striking the arm of a lone man sitting several seats away from the little group.

                     Alerie, the picture of tranquility compared to her frantic husband, finally sees a need to calm him. “Darling, you’re going to have your blood pressure soaring. We know Loras is okay at least. Our son is safe and we know he’s in the right. He’s had quite the ordeal too.”

                     Mace’s eyes soften, his body relaxes to Alerie’s touch, her hands smoothing his arm up and down. The red fades from his cheeks just a little. After a moment, he registers that it’s more than just himself and his family in the corner.

                     Ygritte steps forward first and hugs the man. “Hi, Mr. Tyrell.”

                     “Ygritte, it’s been a long time. I’ve been watching your interviews,” Mace gruffs.

                     “I’m done with them now. They can all harass Marge once she’s up and kickin again. It’s about time she gets a taste of the otherside,” Ygritte jokes. It brings a small, soft smile to Mace’s face, just as it does to Sansa’s own. The assurance that she’s not the only one who knows Margaery will pull through is comforting.

                     Finally Mace turns his attention to Sansa. He gives her the one over. “Alayne, I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. I wish it was under different circumstances. Vastly different circumstances.”

                     “So do I, Mr. Tyrell,” Sansa confesses. She notices the bags under his eyes now, deep like bruises, the wrinkles on his face and realizes what a toll this has taken on him. All this family turmoil and he’s been left in the dark, confused and scared because he’s had no control of any of it. And he doesn’t even know.

                     Sansa puts an arm around Mace, and though the man seems unsure of the touch at first, he accepts it. “Mr. Tyrell-“

                     “Mace,” he corrects her.

                     “Mace,” Sansa amends, “I want you to know that anything you or your family needs, I’m at your disposal. Money, transportation, lawyers, just name it. I have money and connections to help in anyway. And I swear I won’t leave here until I know for a fact Margaery is fine. I know she will be, but until she’s up and she tells me herself,” Mace eyes her with a glance that says ‘you don’t have to’, so Sansa continues on, “I’ve never felt so drawn and comfortable and safe and wanted with any other person as I do with Margaery. This is all so upfront. I hardly know any of you,” her gaze passes over each of the Tyrells present, “but your Margaery’s family. So you’re my family too.”

                     “That’s kind of you, Alayne,” Mace says softly. He takes a seat, he stretches his stubby legs out and then pulls them back under him. “My little princess wasn’t supposed to end up like this. She’s a good person, she’s never hurt anyone intentionally. Mother and Loras and now my baby girl.” Tears brim around Mace’s eyelids. Alerie coos at him, offering him words of comfort and Garlan does the same, maintaining a strong grip on Mace’s shoulder.

                     At least a few people gawk at the emotional scene. Like they’ve never seen a broken family. If anyone knows what it’s like to feel so torn apart and helpless, it’s Sansa. As well meaning as she is herself, she remembers what it was like when her own family fell apart. Her greatest comfort came from her family, what little she had left, not from the well-meaning strangers who knew her father for years but hardly knew her. So she backs away from the Tyrells and returns to her silence with Ygritte.

                     They go hours without hearing news one way or another from the doctors. After a while the consensus becomes that no news is good news. Sansa takes a break from her watch to visit Jon with Ygritte. Two officers guard his door, one posted on either side of the frame, though the door is open. Jon sits on his bed, wearing his own clothes, blood stained and grimy. His injuries, nothing more than scrapes and bruises, give him little reason to even be at the hospital. Nearly every officer is on duty though, Sansa figures. Outside it looked as though half the station was here. It must be easier to keep him under guard in the hospital while the legitimately injured patients are interviewed and checked out.

                     Initially, the officers refuse to let Sansa or Ygritte in. They contact their supervising officer and eventually allow them in one at a time to speak to Jon, only under direct supervision of one of the officers. Watching the pair curled into each other, whispering so low the officer with them must suspect something is up, she realizes just how far Jon and Ygritte have come. Once it’s her turn though, Sansa puts on a show. She has to uphold the image of a pissed off employer and betrayed friend for Jon’s ruse to work. She “fires” him as her bouncer and in the lethal tone she reserves for mafia partnerships she tells him off, threatening him icily. The officer beside her fidgets, unsure if he needs to escort Sansa out or let her blow off steam in a relatively safe environment for Jon.

                     On the walk back, Sansa notices the guards stationed at other doors. One is closed, but has extra precautions. The guards standing outside of it have their guns brandished. The next one down has only one officer stationed, the door open. Gendry is reclined in his hospital bed, head lolled to the side, eyes closed. Sansa makes a mental note to come by and check on his status once Margaery comes out of surgery.

                     Their wait continues until 9 a.m., when Sansa is viciously shaken awake by Ygritte. She hadn’t even realized she’d fallen asleep. “Wha-?” Sansa groggily lifts her head off of the back of the chair. Her neck aches and desperately needs to be cracked.

                     “Margaery’s pop and mom and were invited to a room to see her. She’s out of surgery,” Ygritte tells her.

                     Sansa stumbles out of the chair at the news. She was selfish, always had been at some level, and never more so than when it pertained Margaery. So she couldn’t help but feel a little irritated that she wasn’t woken up to see her immediately with Margaery’s parents. After a few seconds, rational thought took over. She was lucky to even be in the hospital at this point.

                     “They wanted her next of kin to see her first. Sansa, they said she’s in pretty bad shape. Fifteen hours of surgery took their toll on her, that’s what the nurse said,” Garlan calmly says.

                     Sansa can’t imagine anything that looked worse than Margaery did lying on the floor in that damn house.

                     Until she actually sees Margaery lying in her hospital bed, IV’s hooked into her body, the tubes slowly pushing blood into her frighteningly pale body. There’s an oxygen mask over her mouth that feeds into the slow beeping of the machine. The deep purple and black bruises contrast starkly with her skin and the white bandages covering her wounds. Her leg is propped up and tightly secured with another bandage over her bullet wound. Her left side is in a sling and her arm is strapped to her chest to minimalize the risk of involuntary movement. The echo of Margaery’s shoulders popping when she dropped to the floor replays in Sansa’s head.

                     Garlan stops behind her in the doorway, having to collect himself. Years of training herself to refrain from emotional outbursts is the only thing that keeps Sansa’s feet moving to the side of Margaery’s bed. She takes a seat in the patient chair on her right side. The IV in Margaery’s hand prevents Sansa from even holding that one. She settles for her fingers lightly touching the tips of Margaery’s.

                     When he finally enters Garlan shuts the door behind him. He pulls up the doctor’s chair on the other side of the bed and wheels it next to Margaery’s other side.

                     “Hey, sis,” he puts on his best positive voice, as good as anyone could be after confronting their sister bloodied and broken. “You’re doing so well.  And you’re going to be up soon. You’re going to some adventure of a story to tell me, right? About how you bested Cersei Lannister. You’re going to have to write a memoir about this transformation from annoying sassy sister to annoying sassy kick ass fighter,” he leans in closer to Margaery, his elbows on the edge of the bed. “I don’t know why you went through all this, Marge. I just wanted my sister back. If I’d have known…” he seems to remember that it’s Sansa sitting across the bed from him and switches angles. “It doesn’t matter now. I couldn’t have stopped you if I tried. But you gotta get back up Marge. This family doesn’t function right without you.”

                     All the while Sansa can’t bring herself to speak. Tears brim in her eyes, her throat swells with sobs. It was her fault. The first tear drops the place where Sansa and Margaery’s fingers touch. “Baby, I’m so sorry,” she barely gets out before gasping for another breath. “I never meant for this, I thought I could…I should have…Margaery, I can’t lose you too. You have to open your eyes, okay? And sit up and tell me how ridiculous I’m acting…and…and…” she breaks down in tears after that. She pulls her hand away from the bed and sobs into her open palms. “I keep telling you I don’t mean to hurt you. Every time I manage to fuck it up worse.”

                     She feels Garlan’s hand grasp her shoulder. He doesn’t try to comfort her or argue. Had it been someone like Jon or Gendry, they would have tried to talk her down. And she would have lashed out. It’s the kind of thing Arya would do if she was here.

                     Eventually he leaves too. Sansa never does. For the next two days, she leaves the room exactly three times: once to visit Gendry while letting Ygritte and Alerie visit her, once when the nurses kicked Sansa out of the room for staying beyond visiting hours, and once to take a call and chew out Petyr for daring breech the subject of how to take advantage of the police department’s distraction. In that instance, Arya snatched the phone from Petyr and soothed Sansa. Both women had time to let the dust settle and process everything that had happened. Each made their apologies and Arya told Sansa that she would handle the mafia for now. Arya has no love for Margaery, but she would lay it all on the line for Sansa, and Sansa would do the same. That had never changed between them.

                     She’s sitting by Margaery in her typical spot with Mace in the far corner quietly handling a phone call with the lawyer and a nurse a little past noon when the first signs of life happen. Her fingers are curled underneath Margaery’s as she talks to her about nothing in particular when Margaery’s ring finger twitches. Sansa doesn’t notice the movement until it happens a second time.

                     “Margaery, can you hear me? If you can her me, move your finger again love?” she stands over Margaery, deliberately watching Margaery’s hand to see if it happens again. It does.

                     The nurse sets down her clipboard and tilts her head. “Miss Stone, is something wrong?”

                     “She’s waking up,” Sansa murmurs. Slowly a smile spreads across her face. “She can hear me! I asked her to move her finger and she did! She’s waking up!” her voice raises higher and higher.

                     The machine next to Sansa beeps faster, too fast perhaps? The nurse strides up to it, nudging Sansa out of the way. After a quick second, she presses red button under the machine. “I need doctors in room 012 now!”


	38. How To Move On

Snow was uncommon in the Reach at any time of the year, even in the winter. It’s a cruel mockery that today the ground should be littered with specks of snow. She had never been fond of colder weather. There was little she hated more than a day where the thermometer dipped below freezing.

                     Funeral arrangements had to be made quickly. She’d been making such progress the Tyrells were positive that she’d battle through just as she always had. On the day she died, it was as though her spirit had given up.

                      She never had the chance to say goodbye.

                     __________

                     _Doctors poured into the room in a river of white coats. Sansa slipped into the back corner. She’d stay out of their way but there was no chance in any hell that she was going to abandon Margaery now. If Margaery was waking up, Sansa wasn’t going to let the first thing she saw hovering over her be the cold, scrutinizing faces of a dozen strangers all poking and prodding her._

_“Her vitals were abnormally high,” the nurse explained over Mace’s hysterical confused mumbling._

_The doctors simultaneously turned their attention to the beeping machine that read Margaery’s vitals. It was still elevated from the consistent pace of the last two days, but no longer at a frantic pace. One doctor, an older woman with bags drooping so deep beneath her eyes she could hold a coin over the top of her cheek inside of one of them, stepped out amongst the throng toward the machine._

_Instinct drew Sansa closer, first behind the second row of doctors, then to nudging her way up the ranks._

_“Dear, how many coma patients have you worked with?” the doctor asked of the nurse._

_“She would be my second ma’am,” the nurse stammered. Staring at her shoes, arms crossed in front of her body, the woman looked more like a young girl._

_“Here’s a lesson for you: not all comas are the same. This woman_ is merely begin _to wake up from her coma,” the doctor sighed, clearly irritated and overworked. “Her heart beat raised, but her blood pressure and brain waves are in a stable range.” The doctor was using this as a teaching moment for the rest of the staff in the room._ Well intentioned _as it might have been, the use of her girlfriends’ current state playing Grey’s Anatomy for a horde of supposed professionals irked Sansa._

 _The lesson was over soon enough. “Return to your duties. Not all of you can play doctor to the famous,” the chief doctor barked. Half the room scattered out, including the poor nurse. To those who remained the doctor said, “We will want to keep Ms. Tyrell under watch to ensure this goes smoothly.” She turned to Mace, not even sparing a glance to Sansa. She dropped into her ‘bedside manner’ that Sansa had learned every doctor had in their arsenal to varying degrees of success. This_ woman’s _was on the better side. “We can’t say how long of a process this will take, Mr. Tyrell. She could be up and_ chattering _within the hour; it could take several hours. She may be fine once she wakes up or she may be in and out for a couple days. It’s difficult to judge. We will begin reducing the amount of medication she’s being fed that way we can reduce the chances of hallucinations and rather unpleasant dreams as she becomes more conscious.”_

_Mace was too overcome to make a proper response. Given the circumstances, Sansa didn’t blame him. Notifying him of the possibility of complications may have scared him, but Sansa brushed them off. Margaery was waking up. Whatever happened along the way or after, they would handle side by side._

_The gods had never looked kindly upon Sansa. She’d spent years praying, bargaining, questioning them without ever receiving a reply. She wasn’t even sure what hand they may have had in protecting her love. All the same, she thought a quick, silent prayer of thanks to the old gods who had abandoned her father to a cruel fate._

_The chief nodded for one doctor to remain behind. She led the rest out of the room without so much as another word._

_The new doctor, a younger man with a clean shaved face that was most popular in the Summer Islands, finally noticed Sansa was also in the room. “This could take several hours. If the two of you have things to do or need to go home for anything, there is some time.”_

_Sansa gave the doctor the warmest smile she could muster. “Thank you, doctor. I’m more than fine remaining here.”_

_“Yes, thank you, sir,” Mace shook hands with the man. His demeanor was more relaxed. Once the doctor left, he didn’t pace or hunch his shoulders as he had been before. For the first time in weeks, he’s received good news._

_“Would you like me to go to the waiting room and tell your wife the news?” Sansa offered._

_Mace shook his head. “I will go. I need to call my brother to check on my mother anyway. Are you planning on staying with her?”_

_Sansa turned to face Margaery again. The pale blue of the hospital sheets highlighted the change in her skin tone from a few days ago. When she first came to visit, she was nearly as pale as the sheets. The blood infusions had nearly returned her to her natural color. “I don’t plan on ever leaving,” Sansa murmured._

_Mace bid her goodbye for the time being and headed off. Sansa tapped out two quick texts; one for Ygritte to come back to the hospital because Margaery would be awake soon, the other a short update to Arya. She ignored the list of messages from Petyr, Karstark and a very confused Shae. She ignored the messages from Petyr and Karstark. They could wait, and if they needed her desperately, they knew where she was._

_One person did need her relatively immediate attention. Shae had proved sharper than Petyr had assumed when he convinced Sansa to hire her. On Margaery’s first night in the hospital, she had called and asked what happened with Jon and how they got separated in the North. How had Alayne made it back in town without anyone knowing? With Sansa’s mind clouded in her worry for Margaery, an alibi had been difficult to come up with. She finally had one and the sooner she told Shae, the less conspicuous she would appear to her friend. Oddly enough, Sansa did consider the older woman a friend. Deep down she was certain the woman knew her job wasn’t a typical bartending job, but she remained there regardless. She didn’t push to know the truth as long as it didn’t affect her, which was a nice change from her daily demands._

_She preceded that email with a short message explaining she couldn’t currently talk, then went on to describe how Jon had asked her to return home for personal matters. She had agreed and remained in the North to continue searching. The moment the Tyrell family had called her about Margaery’s state, she chartered a private flight to King’s Landing. The alibi wasn’t ideal—not even close—but Shae would accept it, not because she believed it, but because it was something she could tell police if they came knocking on her door about Jon._

_Shortly after Mace had left, Alerie stopped in to say that she and Mace were going back to their hotel for an urgent matter. Sansa didn’t push for more information. Between Margaery’s condition, mafia matters and Shae’s ever-growing suspicion of Alayne Stone, she had enough to occupy herself._

_The latter had only just been brought to her attention through a series of texts from Petyr and Arya. The woman had called Alayne’s home to check in on her after not hearing from her for several days following Arya’s actual arrival in King’s Landing. The last she knew, “Alayne” had been searching for Margaery in the North._

_The prospect of Shae piecing together the truth should frighten Sansa. Oddly enough, it’s almost a relief. She trusted Shae. If she didn’t, she wouldn’t have left Shae in charge of the bar for weeks while she was gone. There was a gut feeling that Shae wouldn’t sell her out if she knew the truth. She would mind her own business, which Sansa respected. Which was why of all her concerns, she was content letting that one continue to simmer._

_Periodically the doctor would pop in and check Margaery’s vitals. Sansa continued talking to Margaery, leaving longer and longer gaps of silence when she started running out of made up topics to discuss with herself. Her heart skipped each time Margaery twitched, even when she knew the movement was involuntary. Eventually, she even tuned out the short visits from the doctor._

_By the time Ygritte arrived, Margaery was showing signs of soon waking. She was moving more, becoming more responsive to the things Sansa would say. By the time she was ready to wake, Sansa, Ygritte_ and _Garlan had gathered around Margaery’s bed, flanked by doctors._

_Sansa’s heart stuttered as Margaery’s eyes blinked open. And sunk to her stomach at the recognition of pain, fear and confusion in Margaery’s wide, soft eyes._

_____________________________________________________________

                     She brushes snow off of the top of the granite tombstone.

                     “Olenna Tyrell”: “I was good. I was very good.”

                     There aren’t better words to describe the matriarch of the Tyrell family. She was fantastic at any task she undertook. She rebuilt the Reach into an economic boon while she was in office. She was a great talker and a great gardener. A great mother and an even better grandmother.

                      And she was good. Just as Renly had been good. And Brienne had been good. She even imagined she was good like Eddard Stark had been. It was just a different type of good.

                     Tears burn against the chill on Margaery’s cheeks. She wipes her gloved hand at the top of her cheeks, careful not to budge her arm still in the shoulder sling.

                     Her grandmother had always been her hero. Not only did she accomplish groundbreaking political triumphs, but she always had time for Margaery. The world knew the Queen of Thorns. Most of the time, that’s how her family knew her too. Not Margaery. She saw through the edge. Aside from her quick wit and sharp tongue, she had also found a confidant in her grandmother. When she had crushes or when she was uncertain how to tell her father she was moving to King’s Landing rather than attending law school, Margaery had gone to her grandmother first. Her grandmother was brutally honest, but always caring and always holding her best intentions.

                      When Willas had died, Margaery was too young to know she should have felt hurt. Now she barely remembered his smile and likely wouldn’t at all if not for the pictures of him her parents kept. Renly’s death had hurt, but Margaery is realizing more and more that the pain stemmed from guilt and sorrow for her brother. Olenna’s death caused its own brand of pain born of love and loss. There was nothing to feel guilty for, because Olenna’s death rested firmly on the neck of Cersei Lannister. With Cersei lying at the greatest depths of the seventh hell, all that was left was to mourn.

                     Margaery isn’t sure how much longer she kneels before the grave before she finally speaks. “I never thought you’d be the one to go first. You always went on and on and on about outliving all those wars, the political scandals, diseases. There were times it felt like you were immortal. And you’ve always been so strong. I always wanted to make you proud. In the end, I know I did. I’m sorry it ended like this, when you deserved so much more. If there’s any justice, any Seven, then your place is reserved at the highest of the heavens grandmother. I love you so much.”

                     Soft snow crunches behind her, growing louder and louder until the noise is just behind her. Sansa squats down beside her, enveloping her with one arm, wary not to touch her injured shoulder.

                     She’d still been in a half-high daze when the funeral was held. When she first gained enough soundness of mind to understand what had happened, she’d been furious that she wasn’t allowed to go to the funeral. Being back home now, secure with her family and Sansa, she begins to think she prefer funeral-for-one.

                     The original funeral had been a therapeutic mourning session for the general public. Television crews invaded High Garden and captured every angle of the funeral route. Citizens outlined the Hurst procession like a parade route. Cameras captured the images of young, most of whom had only the faintest idea of what Olenna had done for the Reach during her tenure, and old, whom had never known the woman behind her moniker, crying as her body passed. In the days following her return to consciousness, Margery had envied these people. What right did they have to say goodbye to a woman they hardly knew?

                     Today, the camera crews are long gone. The citizens of Highgarden have moved on. They’ll remember her grandmother in history books and political debate. To them, she’s a relic of  the past. Which leaves Margaery the time and solitude to say goodbye. It won’t be the last time. Unlike the people who never knew Olenna, Margaery won’t forget.

                     Sansa leans into Margaery and Margaery presses back, her forehead pushing into Sansa’s cheekbone. Sansa’s hand rubs Margaery’s side in a soothing up and down motion. Margaery’s eyes shut, allowing her to further appreciate the smell of citrus and something wholly Sansa.

                     “I think I’m ready to go,” Margaery murmurs.

                     “Are you sure?” Sansa asks. “I don’t mind staying longer if you need to.”

                     Margaery shakes her head and pulls forward from Sansa’s grip. “There’s nothing more to say or do here. I’ve made my peace.”

                     Sansa slowly rises. She offers a hand down to Margaery to help her off the ground too. When she walks, Margaery still has a slight hobble in her step. According to the doctor that injury should be healed within a week.

                     She isn’t lying when she tells Sansa she’s made her peace. With her grandmother at least. With the other lives destroyed, with her physical and emotional scars from the shootout, with her role in Jon’s imprisonment and its consequences, with her work life, with her new life bound to a mafia boss? Well Sansa hadn’t asked about that. 

 __________

                     _“We need to swoop in while the iron’s hot,” Umber barks in the background. “We easily have the manpower and resources to fill in the gaps left by the Lannisters. We’ll be swimming in their filthy riches in two months.”_

 _Petyr scolds him for his carelessness, doing Sansa’s job for her. Umber always talks a big game but never knows when to shut up. Like now, when they are on an_ unsecure _line and Sansa is in the middle of Margaery’s hospital room where a nurse could wander in and out whenever convenient._

_“I think it’s best for us to discuss the matter in person tonight, Ms. Stone,” Petyr says. “The game has changed, and so has our power structure. If we wait too long to decide, we won’t have a say in what direction the game takes next.”_

_“It can wait,” Sansa repeats for what must be the tenth time today alone._

_“It can’t wait any longer. I understand you’ve been pre-occupied with your…friend in the hospital. Our profits share and opportunity dwindles as long as you insist on playing doctor. Let someone else fix her for a while,”_ Petyr _snaps. Just as she’s trying his patience, he’s pushing her to the end of hers._

 _“It will wait until I say. Every business is scrambling right now. They’re too busy covering their own asses for_ association _to be concerned about a power vacuum,” Sansa replies. “As for what I do in the_ mean time _, that is between myself and whomever I deem necessary. Which, as of right now, does not include either of you. Do tonight’s job, nothing more.”_

_Umber grumbles inaudibly in the background._

_“Care to repeat that Smalljon? It sounded as though you were asking for a ticket straight to the swamplands to deal with the Reeds,” Sansa leans forward, resting her elbow against her knee. Her back pops from remaining stiff for too long. It’s been hours since she got out of this chair, probably since the last time Margaery woke up._

_When Margaery’s eyes clench together in her sleep, Sansa quit waiting for an answer. “Keep me posted on our status with Shae. Goodbye.” She hangs up._

_Margaery tosses her head one way, then the other. It’s another nightmare. The medication she’s been weening off of combined with her emotional and physical trauma is triggering them. From what Sansa has gathered. They’re horrendous and very, very real to Margaery. It’s part of the reason that Sansa has refused to leave Margaery’s side save for a handful of times. She’s hardly left Margaery for more than a few hours at a time since the Tyrells flew home for Olenna’s funeral._

_Margaery had argued with doctors for hours that she should be able to leave for the funeral. Loras and Mace had backed her, but ultimately the doctors stood firm in their belief that Margaery shouldn’t leave. Sansa shared in that belief that Margaery was better off here, much as it pained her to see Margaery in grief and hurting from her grandmother’s death. But Margaery was hardly in a position to walk the hospital floors, let alone fly to Highgarden. For the first few_ days _she was constantly in and out of consciousness. When she was conscious there were times she had no idea where she was or what was going on, thanks to the heavy doses of drugs she as on. Her blood pressure still wasn’t where doctors would have liked it to be by the time her family left._

_The coincidence that Margaery woke within hours of Mace learning of Olenna’s death didn’t escape anyone, but no one would dare mention it. Margaery wasn’t in a state in which she could handle more drama than necessary anyway. For someone who was always able to manage her facial expressions under scrutiny and disguise the extremities of her emotions, seeing the utter terror etched on her face when she woke in confusion broke Sansa’s heart._

_Sansa had made a move forward to comfort her, against the doctors’ recommendations, but Margaery had flinched away. It was as if she didn’t know her. Or worse—that she was stuck in the time before she and Sansa had reconciled._

_She didn’t realize she had injuries until it was too late. She had tried to lift her arm and couldn’t. She nearly twisted her leg in mid-air, unaware that it was caught in a_ make shift _crane of sorts to leverage her wound. She yelped in pain, adding to her confusion._

 _Sansa takes Margaery’s hand._ There’s _no longer IV tubes sticking out from it. Her leg doesn’t need to be leveraged anymore. Margaery’s last remaining restraint is sling over her shoulder. Despite the progress that the changes demonstrate, it makes it easier for Margaery to accidentally further injure herself in one of these episodes. She has no control over her actions or reactions. Holding her hand seems to have a soothing effect though._

 _“Sshhh,_ ssshhh _baby. It’s okay. I’m right here,” Sansa hushes her. She strokes her thumb across the back of Margaery’s hand. Margaery stops thrashing, her breaths even out. Sansa is about to pull back, believing Margaery to be back to a normal sleep, but then Margaery’s eyes flutter open._

_“Sans-,” Margaery slurs from sleep. She winces and reaches her god arm across her body to her shoulder, stopping just short of touching it._

_Sansa cuts her off before a nurse or one of the Unsullied agents clamoring to interrogate Margaery walk in unannounced. “No baby, it’s me, Alayne.”_

_Margaery’s hair is matted and tangled on the side of her head. Sansa unthinkingly runs her fingers through the mess in an attempt to make it neater. In other_ circumstances _her hair would have been Margaery’s top priority._

_“This stupid sling isn’t doing a thing to help my shoulder,” Margaery bemoans. Her hand slides back across the bed and feels its way to Sansa’s empty hand. Sansa squeezes her hand. She files away the memory of Margaery’s soft smile blooming on her face._

_“The sling would work just fine if someone could learn to be still_ during _their dreams.” It’s meant to be a_ joke, _but clearly hits a sore spot when the smile falls far too quickly._

_Margaery stares at her hand interlocked with Sansa’s. “They don’t feel like dreams. They’re so real.”_

_“They’re not real, okay?” Sansa loosens her grip. “It will get better, I promise. Once they get you off this morphine, it will help. And we can find a therapist or two that we can trust if you feel comfortable with that. I think that will do us both good.”_

_Seven know she could have used one in her teenage years. Therapy could have saved her years of self-blame and stress issues she endured. While she can’t force Margaery to accept any help, providing it is a start. Regardless, Sansa believes that straightening out any residual trust issues she has left buried beneath the layers she’s cultivated will be good for herself and her relationship in the long run._

_“Alayne,” Margaery whispers._

_“Yeah?”_

_Margaery squeezes her fingers around Sansa’s hand. “I love you.”_

_She can’t control the ridiculous grin that spreads across her face. Sansa never doubted Margaery’s love for her, even when Margaery did. To know that Margaery was now sure herself though, Sansa couldn’t describe the pure bliss she felt at the words. If she could, she would play them on repeat all day._

_“I love you too,” Sansa is careful to not put any of her own weight on Margaery’s right side as she hugs her. Margaery’s nose is cool to the touch as it brushes Sansa’s neck. She wants to stay just like this holding Margaery, certain that nothing and no one can hurt her. She’s in control and at peace._

_All too soon the moment is yanked away from her. The door slams open. Sansa leaps_ up on _instinct, primed punish the intruder who dared disturb Margaery right now. It’s not some sneaky tabloid pap looking for a quick pic to land on the cover of the Red Watch (there’s already been two of those snuffed out by security). No, it’s Ygritte grinning ear to ear in the best mood she’s had in days carrying a box loaded so loaded so full with newspapers and magazines there’s a path leading down the hall and around the corner from Margaery’s room._

 _“Hospitals are sex free zones_ Alayne, _unless you’re a doc or junior doc. Gotta keep your hands off the patients,” Ygritte bounces past her, bumping her with the edge of the box to plop it on Margaery’s right side, the other side of the bed._

 _Sansa rolls her eyes. Irritating as the interruption is, Sansa is grateful to give Margaery these distractions on this day of all days. She knows how close Margaery and her grandmother had been. At some point in the_ day _the brunt of the mourning will surely slam in face first. There’s no reason to linger on that anticipation all day._

_She watches Ygritte and Margaery go through nearly every publication in the box. They joke about Ygritte’s interviews, the questions she’s asked and her preferential treatment by some of the more desperate news outlets. Every now and then Margaery glances at Sansa and smiles softly in her direction. It’s a confirmation that even though everything is not fine now, it will be._

*********************

                     Before they’d left, Margaery and Sansa had discussed how to make the trip more of a celebration of her grandmother’s life than a grieving for her death.

                     The snow complicated plans, but Margaery had thought of ways around the dilemmas it caused. She walked Sansa through Olenna’s greenhouse again. This time they enjoyed the beautiful lilies and hybrid roses her grandmother had grown. They avoided the back. Venturing there would only spur unwanted memories. After they’d warmed up inside and had their fill of flowers, Margaery took Sansa to her grandmother’s favorite bakery. She and the owner had been friends. Olenna had paid of the elderly man’s bank loan when the bank suddenly demanded their loan back in full. Few people knew that side of Olenna-- the gentle, caring side.

                     From there, Sansa begged Margaery to see the ponds Margaery enjoyed reminiscing on. A quick pit stop at Margaery’s parents’ house for a Loras’s old pair of skates (in case Sansa wanted to do some ice skating) and they’re off.

                     With her leg still not quite at one hundred percent healthy and her arm still locked up in a sling, Margaery opts to sit on the sidelines. Rather than show off her skills on the iffy ice (Sansa claims its only half frozen and could easily break, though none of the eager skaters heed the warning of born and bred Northerner), Sansa stays by Margaery’s side, building a small family of snowmen.

                     “This one’s the baby,” Sansa adds the last stick arm to the smallest snowman.

                     “It’s missing something,” Margaery digs through the snow until she reaches a pebble buried beneath. It’s meant to be a nose for the little guy, but Margaery pushes it too carelessly and its head lops off, obliterating the snow into dust again.

                     “My snow baby!” Sansa feigns melodrama as she clutches at her chest. “He was too young! Too good!”

                     Margaery shrugs. “He was the runt of the litter. The rest of them would have taken him out sooner or later.”

                     “You monster. You’re going to take that back,” Sansa lunges forward playfully tackling Margaery to the ground.

                     “Ow!” Margaery yelps the moment her shoulder makes contact with the ground. It’s a soft landing, but her shoulder is growing more and more sensitive. She won’t be starting physical therapy on it until after they return home.

                     “Shit shit shit shit shit!” Sansa scrambles off of her. She gets a hand under Margaery’s mid-arm and helps her sit back up. “I’m sorry! I wasn’t even thinking. That was so stupid.”

                     The pain begins fading away. “I’m okay,” Margaery sighs. “It was the shock more than anything. No harm, no foul.”

                     Sansa doesn’t look convinced, but she nods her head. The two of them stare out over the lake, watching teenagers on holiday from a school throw snowballs at each other. Some younger kids with their parents make snow angels on the ground. A few brave souls use make shift items like cardboard boxes to sled down the hill half a mile away.

                     “It’s probably nothing like Winterfell, but the  snow here can be nice,” Margaery murmurs.

                     “Oh it’s nothing at all like the North,” Sansa agrees. “Pile another foot of snow and you’re beginning to see what it looks like in early winter. The snow back home is thicker too. Not as powdery as this southern snow. But you’re right. It does have a certain charm.”

                     She misses the North. Margaery hears it more and more in Sansa’s inflection. There’s a hollow longing. Like she’s not unsatisfied and unable to do anything about it.

                     “I dreamt about home last night,” Sansa continues. “It was snowing. A heavy snow with howling wind. Arya and I were outside looking for firewood. But then the firewood and the snow suddenly disappeared and I was suddenly I was in a candy shop and all the candy bars were labeled with different alphabet letters. I had to put them together to make a password and win a prize. The prize was a new collar for Lady.”

                     “Interesting…” Margaery says, confused about where this was going. One of the kids in the distance  cries hysterically after getting hit in the face with a snowball.

                     “So, that was my dream. Feel free to talk about anything you dreamt about last night. If you want to,” Sansa scoots a little closer.

                     Talking is key. The therapist Sansa had arranged for made that blatant to Margaery during every appointment they’d had (four thus far). Initially the vigor with which Sansa approached the topic a therapy surprised Margaery. Yes she had mentioned going, but Margaery hadn’t realized how serious she’d been. It was meant to unbottle her emotions and thoughts. Keep them from getting locked up. Last night though, she had woken in a cold sweat after her dreams. She knew she woke Sansa too, because as she settled back down to sleep again, Sansa wrapped her arm over her back and pulled her closer than she would in a natural state of sleep.

                     It wouldn’t take much to turn it around on Sansa. A little redirection, the right question about Sansa’s past and Margaery would be in the clear. That won’t change the past though, and it certainly won’t build their relationship to the point that Margaery wants it to be.

                     Margaery focuses on the icy pond as she says, “It was Jaime again. I dreamed about the last time I talked to him before his death. And blood poured out of a wound in his chest. His eyes rolled back. The ground opened up to swallow him. He grabbed my ankle to pull me down with him. And then I woke up.”

                     Sansa considers Margaery’s dream, choosing her words carefully before answering. “Have you talked with the maester about Jaime yet?”

                     Margaery shakes her head. “We haven’t quite reached that point yet.” In her first couple of visits, she danced around the topic of the Lannister ambush. Who was to say that this maester Sansa had found wouldn’t flip on them? He’d wanted to delve straight into that topic, but Margaery had convinced to take a longer, more arduous route through Margaery’s benevolent childhood. He felt alike they were making progress, Sansa was satisfied that she was seeing a professional, and Margaery was finally in control of something again. Everyone won.

                     “It’s okay to tell him anything, when you get there. He’s on our side.”

                     Sansa’s phone rings. And rings. Sansa makes no attempt to answer it.

                     “Sweetling, that might be important,” Margaery nudges her.

                     “If it’s important now, it will still be important when we’re back at your place in a couple of hours,” Sansa gestures at the phone in her pocket. “I’m enjoying a beautiful afternoon with my amazing girlfriend and I have no desire to interrupt it with a twenty-minute talk with Petyr about which business he should buy out next. I’d much rather talk about nothing with you.”

                     A southern girl can only last so long in the snow. The next freezing wind gust is Margaery’s last straw. “Let’s go home. I can make some hot cocoa and we can finally watch another episode of Dunk and Egg.”

                     Margaery gets up.

                     “I have a confession to make. I may have watched and episode or two when you were out with your parents last night,” Sansa hesitates to get up.

                     “You’re watching it again, so I hope you at least liked them,” Margaery frowns.

                     “Oh of course. Especially Egg’s new boyfriend. He’s hilarious,” Sansa casually drops the spoiler.

                     Margaery’s eyes go wide with anger and shock. “You little…”

                     Sansa hops to her feet and yanks Margaery toward herself hard for a kiss. Between their chapped lips, the it’s a less than graceful start. Sansa grasps Margaery’s chin though and deepens the kiss, as if trying to apologize for the unwanted information. It’s delightful, but it doesn’t work.

                     Margaery breaks away and glares at Sansa. She folds her good arm across her chest and waits for a response.

                     “So…are we nixing the hot cocoa then?” Sansa asks sheepishly.

                     Margaery turns heel toward the car. “Oh there will be hot cocoa. For me at least. You, on the other hand, will be lucky to even get a hot shower for the rest of the trip.”

                     Sansa chases her to the car, apologizing and dropping more “spoilers” all the way.

                     It’s been months since there had been a shred of normalcy between them. Nearly every conversation had some mention of mafias, jail time, murders, spies. There would never be a true “normal” between them again. What happened with the Lannisters would always linger, never truly being put to rest.

                      Teasing though, that was familiar. So was Dunk and Egg, cuddling on the couch, casual flirting, Sansa knitting all the while. It all came back sitting in her parents’ cozy living room, binge watching a TV show. They could make a new normal.      


	39. Home

**4 Months Later**

                     Goodbye was supposed to be difficult. The _King’s Courier_ was Margaery’s big break, or so she had thought at the time. A small part of her is relieved that she’s moving on though.

                     The actual goodbyes had been a small affair. Back when the photo editor had retired, there was a cake, some gifts, even a speech or two. Only a handful of people knocked on Margaery’s door to wish her well. Sam helped her pack her things in her car. Jorah hadn’t even spoken to her since she turned in her letter of resignation.

                     Since returning, her work hadn’t been the same. She was a fool to imagine things would go back to the way they had always been. Her assignments revolved around fluff pieces, editing, office work. Everyone and anyone else were getting the hard news stories that drove Margaery’s passion. As weeks passed, it became clearer that the decision to take her off the investigative stories was a personal decision.

                     She was still receiving phone calls begging for interviews about her “kidnapping”. For a week one reporter stalked her at the police station, somehow learning her routine and “coincidentally” being there when she arrived so he could hound her for a scoop. Missandei finally had the man put in a cell for six hours when he refused to listen to her orders to leave Margaery alone.

                      She realized that Jorah held that as a personal offense; against her own wishes, Margaery was still the news. Although he wouldn’t admit it, he was still pissed as hell about the publication of her articles without his consent. She had undermined him and outshone the paper itself. It was an unforgivable offense. She was more than ready to get back out there and scour the city for the next big story; it wasn’t going to happen at the _Courier_.

                     She’d barely begun looking at openings in other news organizations when Sansa came home one evening with the announcement that the mafia needed her to relocate to Winterfell.

                     “With Cersei gone, there’s nothing left for me in King’s Landing,” Sansa had sighed. Her eyes had grown wide as she understood the implication of her words. “No, I mean…King’s Landing was only ever a mission. The people of Winterfell need me there. Now that the Lannisters are gone, there’s nothing to impede out business dealings in King’s Landing. Petyr’s the perfect little rat to manage the system. A Stark hasn’t been in Winterfell in a decade. I can generate an alliance with the police there, grow my businesses and better know the needs of the people who depend on me. I need to go home.” She had taken Margaery’s hand into her own, looked her straight in the eye. “I want you to come with me.”

                     There was nothing for Margaery in Winterfell. It was cold, foreign, and boring. Her options weren’t much better in King’s Landing.  And home…wasn’t home anymore. Her parents were there, but what else was there? Her uncle had sold her grandmother’s estate, dividing the profit between the whole family. Garlan had left the Reach for Bitterbridge, seeing that as a burgeoning community to raise his baby girl in. Only her parents remained and who knew how long that would last?

                      Margaery had expected Sansa to push. While she did bring it up every now and then for the next couple of weeks and dropped reasons why she thought the move would do the both good, it wasn’t the pressure Margaery had grown accustomed to with her girlfriend. It was a nice change.

                     By the time _The Northern Star Ledger_ came knocking on her door, Margaery knew she’d be packing her belongings to accompany Sansa back to Winterfell. Their relationship was about sacrifices and her leaving a job that clearly didn’t want her so the woman she loved could do greater good for her hometown could barely be considered a sacrifice.  

                     _The Ledger’s_ offer was too good to pass up anyway. A co-editor position (with far more writing than actual editing) in their digital news department, full control over her investigative reports with no time table, first choice in news assignments on a weekly basis. Sansa swore on Lady’s unborn puppies that she had nothing to do with the offer. Her work certainly wouldn’t be the same as it was in King’s Landing, but perhaps she was due for a change of pace.

                     Driving home just as the rain comes down, she’s finally putting a piece of her past behind her. By the time she’s parked in the driveway, the sprinkle has transformed into a downpour. Sansa’s out the door to greet her with Lady bouncing on her heels. Her white t-shirt is drenched. Her hair is pinned into a high pony tail, but the loose strands stick to her face. Margaery doesn’t even have the chance to say hello. Sansa presses her lips against Margaery’s open mouth and easily slips her tongue in. Margaery doesn’t resist the opportunity to indulge her girlfriend, even if she is a little cold and her shoulder is a little sore. She kisses back, brushing her tongue against Sansa’s in a playful duel.

                     Lady walks directly beneath Margaery’s dangling hand, the tips of her fur tickling Margaery’s fingers. With a sigh Margaery pulls away. She’s barely able to see with the rain and hair in her face. “We should get inside. One of us is bound to catch a cold out here.”

                     Margaery pops her trunk open so she can begin carrying in her boxes. Except Sansa has no intention of allowing that to happen. She beats Margaery to the back of the car and slams the trunk shut again.

                     “Sweetling, I have to get my office supplies inside,” Margaery reaches around her to manually open the trunk.

                     Sansa blocks her hand. She pushes down on the top to ensure she can’t open it with the button again. “Uh-uh. You’re not touching a single box. Get your wet arse inside and _I_ will rearrange everything in the morning before we head out.”

                     Arguing wouldn’t do any good. There are more important fights for Margaery to save her energy for—like who gets the bigger office at their new place in Winterfell. Margaery nips at her bottom lip. Sansa’s eyes follow the movement intently, just like Margaery expected. “Oh I suppose you’re right. After all, I’m soaking right through these pants. Once I’m inside I can get myself off,” she turns heel and takes three struts away from Sansa before pausing and peering back over her shoulder. Sansa hasn’t moved a muscle. “Silly me. I meant dried off.”

                     She continues the short walk without another glance back. Lady races ahead of her to beat her into the house. Half way to the door, Sansa’s feet pound against the slick pavement. Even with an added pep to her step Margaery barely kicks off her shoes before the door slams shut and she’s pressed up against it.

                     The breath of air that was about to go in is replaced by Sansa’s lips hot on her own. Her fingers find a hold on Margaery’s waist, squeezing ever so slightly as Sansa tilts her head. “You little…” Sansa murmurs against her lips.

                     All she needs is a quick gasp of air before lunges forward, teeth nipping lightly at Sansa’s bottom lip. Sansa’s lips curve into a smile. One arm wraps around Margaery’s back to pull her closer. A droplet of water drips from Sansa’s chin onto Margaery’s collarbone. She shivers involuntarily, her tongue teases Sansa’s as starts dominating the kiss. Her own breath bounces off Sansa’s cheek, heating Margaery’s face. To get a better hold of Sansa, Margaery lifts her arm to wrap around Sansa’s neck.

                     It all falls apart from there. The movement, after a day of lifting and driving only days after the doctor told her to take it easy now that she no longer had to wear her sling 24 hours a day, caused her shoulder to sting in an intense shock of pain. Margaery drops her arm, hopeful that Sansa doesn’t notice the sudden movement or connect it to the hiss she can’t help but release.

                     Her wishful thinking is all for not. Sansa pulls back breathless but her eyes dart to Margaery’s shoulder. “Babe you said you were going to take it slow. What happened to getting help today?”

                     “I did get help. Sam carried some of the boxes and I did the rest,” Margaery explains. She reaches out for Sansa, keeping her arms low so she won’t cause for the damage, but enough has already been done. She winces again at the slight sting.

                     “You shouldn’t have done any. I knew I should have insisted on going with you.” Sansa nudges the collar of Margaery’s shirt to the side. Whatever Sansa sees, she doesn’t like. “Sit on the couch. No buts. When I come back, I want to see you lounging, relaxed and ready to not do a damn thing the rest of the night.”

                     The doctor had given her the okay to move her arm without the arm sling that had earned Margaery’s ire daily since her stay in the hospital. Without it, she felt free. It feels like having a piece of her old self back. The bones that the bullet had cracked were fully healed now, but some of the muscle tissue was still tender—case and point being her sore shoulder now.

                     Just as Sansa had ordered, she comes back to find Margaery sitting back on the couch, feet up, stroking Lady’s fur with her good arm while the other is obediently pulled tight against her body. She loops the sling around Margaery’s neck and gently nestles her arm into the pouch. “There. Nice and tight.” Sansa kicks Lady off the couch—an exhausting feat for anyone except the dog’s mistress—and takes the spot she had occupied.

                     The sarcastic retort Margaery has lined up falls from her tongue the moment her eye catches the faint line of the scar at the far side of Sansa’s cheek. She’s doing her best.

                     “Ygritte and Loras are still coming in the morning,” she lays her head on Sansa’s shoulder, letting her girlfriend hold her close.

                     “I remember, babe. That’s why I left plenty of boxes out for them to pack,” Sansa grins down at her. She glances away, pauses and then says, “Jon’s talked to her about the move. Arya went to see him yesterday. She says that he said she understands now. She might even act civil toward me.”

                     The last time Sansa and Ygritte had been in the same room, Ygritte had called her a traitor amongst a few other choice words. Margaery would have felt the same if the positions were switched and it was Sansa being left in a jail cell and the rest of the mafia and Ygritte running north just when things calmed down.

                     Sansa made the decision to go home only with Jon’s consent. Of course it looked like the mafia was abandoning him to face the consequences of the mission alone. Ygritte knew that wasn’t reality, but there was also no timetable to get him out. She’d sacrificed as much as anyone lately and she still carried the burden of a crime she never committed.

                     Sansa had offered Ygritte a position in the mafia and the opportunity to join the mafia. Ygritte had all but spat in her face. She wasn’t about to leave Jon like the rest of them.

                     Her wrath stayed solely on Sansa. By now Margaery and Ygritte had learned to separate the mafia from their friendship. But tomorrow was goodbye. Margaery doesn’t know how long it will be until she sees her best friend again. She’s determined that it won’t be another permanent farewell.

                     Loras had the power to keep Margaery in King’s Landing. The months had been rough on him. His squadron welcomed him back with open arms and his new captain regarded him as one of the best cops on the force once more. His home life was different. Where he used to go out constantly with Renly and his friends from the force, he now only hung out with Margaery and a male prostitute he kept under wraps. He quit fencing. Had he told Margaery to stay, she would have. Yet when she told him what she was considering, he had leapt in joy. Told her she’d be crazy to pass and that a move would be good for her. 

                     They spend their last evening in Sansa’s King’s Landing manor watching some baking competition show, too distracted by their conversations to change the channel. Eventually the show gains Margaery’s attention.

                     Sansa nods off, softly breathing against the top of Margaery’s head. It’s a shock nowadays when one of them doesn’t wake up jolting or screaming from a bloody nightmare. Whatever good talking about them does, the nightmares never truly go away. Whether it’s Jaime Lannister staring her down, his voice haunting her as she runs through the mansion or Sansa mixing the explosion with Margaery’s near death at the Lannister mansion.

                     Determined to provide her girlfriend with a pleasant wake up for once, Margaery wriggles against her until her body is turned enough that she can dip down to kiss Sansa gently. The moment Sansa wakes, she deepens the kiss. “I love it when you do that,” she murmurs.

                     “I think it’s bedtime for us. We have a long day tomorrow,” Margaery gets up. She cleans up the living room while Sansa lets out Lady.

                     In bed, Margaery is moments from reaching sleep when Sansa rolls onto her side and whispers. “Margaery, thank you.”

                     “Thank you? For what?” Margaery yawns.

                     “Everything. Winterfell. You don’t realize how much this means to me. Or maybe you do. I know you’re leaving a life here, closing a chapter. I’m not going to let down your trust. I’m going to take care of you,” Sansa confides.

                     “You’re right, Sansa,” Margaery scoots to the middle of the bed, cuddling to be Sansa’s little spoon. “You have my full trust and you’re going to take care of me. Just like I’m going to take care of you. But this isn’t an ending. It’s our beginning.”

                     Sansa squeezes her tighter, nose buries into Margaery’s neck. There’s no one Margaery would rather take on the future with regardless of what awaits them.

************

                                                                         **_Epilogue_**

_There was a time when the Stark name was godly in the North. In some pockets, it still was revered on par with the Old Gods. Back then, Karstark had been awestruck to be scraping the snow off the sidewalk of the old headquarters in Winterfell._

_Glover, Umber and those fucking Mormonts had turned tale the moment news spread of old Neddy’s death. But Karstark? He stuck with Baelish, Roose and the Stark kids. He paid his dues, pulled his share of hits, got his hands dirty for Sansa when she was too much of a child to comprehend what they were doing. North would survive on the shoulders of this girl, he was going to make damn sure of it._

_The time to profit had come. And it was slipping through their fingers, disappearing like the snow outside the dank tavern Karstark found himself in now. Sure, they were making more money now. Contraband sales had increased, businesses were branching out to the farther reaches of the North. It wasn’t enough. “Stonecold” refused to take over the gambling rings abandoned by the Lannister’s downfall. Small time gangs were nipping them out from under them. She had questioned the morality of their hit jobs that they’d taken to performing for Northern politicians who paid them handsomely, going so far as to sever ties with Mance Raider, their greatest benefactor. The last straw had been the flat out denial of Karstark’s proposal that they start selling their stash north of the Twins. The boss had made a fuss about honor and duty and their duty to the people was not to tempt them with the trash they pumped to the Southerners. What fucking difference did it make? Anyone weak enough to use the stash they sold was no True Northerner._

_It was no coincidence that Stark quit listening to him the moment she got her hands on that Southern bitch. She’d been brainwashed. Karstark thought he could tolerate it. Once Snow took the fall for the mafia, Karstark imagined he may even be able to draw the boss back to clarity. He was next in command; he’d take over dutifully as the boss’s second in command and show her the profit that lay out there and the good it could do for the North (and their own bank accounts)._

_He never had the chance. The boss hadn’t even had the balls to tell him in person; Baelish told him that Gendry was her new second in command, on the advice of Arya. A street scum southerner had flown right pass him on the Mafia Ladder. Gendry had already proven a dumbass. Rather than siphon the excess money for the upper echelon to take home and spend as they saw fit, he’d sent the extra to orphanages and charities. Things that wouldn’t exist if not for the profitability of the mafia command._

_Calling Sansa north had been a last resort. She wasn’t supposed to bring the journalist with her. Her southern slut already had one Stark wrapped around her finger. She couldn’t take their sacred ground too. For the good of their people, the mafia could not continue to fall to these damned southerners._

_He wasn’t the only one. Unlike Stark, though, his small faction had the brains to see his value. They had to pry their boss out of the grasp of those Southerners and remind her of her place. She may be a Stark, but she was no god._

_So he found himself at a rundown bar, the Dreadfort, in the middle of nowhere. The music was inaudible from the busted speakers. A total of 7 light bulbs in the whole damn building probably worked, including the bulb shining down on the center of the table. It was probably colder in here than it was outside. Karstark stayed wrapped in his coat._

_The man across from him didn’t. His short hair was shaggy, nose so crooked it might be broken. His teeth were pearly white despite the cigarette sticking out between them. Smoke billowed from his mouth each time he huffed the cig. His fingers were littered with cuts. They didn’t seem to affect him in the least as his fingers traced the rim of his whiskey glass all while Karstark made the proposal. When Karstark finished, Ramsay Bolton’s teeth flashed into a full, wolfish grin. The gleen in his eyes was something between dastardly and delighted._

_“As a true bred Northerner, it’s my duty to serve our people in whatever facet I’m asked of. I must say it’s a shame to learn how far our great Boss Sansa has let herself become thrown off course. Not much of a shock, if I’m free to speak for myself. Some women have weak hearts. I knew Sansa was one of those from the moment I met her of course,” Ramsay threw back the rest of his whiskey._

_Karstark nodded. Weak wasn’t the word he’d use to describe Sansa. “Easily distracted” was a better fit. “She needs a strong guiding hand to help her remember what’s important.”_

_“Alright, I’ll do it!” Ramsay exclaimed, slamming his glass on to the table with such force it creates a crack in the base of the glass._

_“Good. Now, the boys and I have a few…”_

_“No!” Ramsay yelled. His voice dropped back into its falsely cheery tone immediately. “Stark and I, well let’s say I’ve been preparing for a reunion for quite some time. No, no, no sir, if you want me to help you turn the North into the Westerlands, you’ll find its best I use my own methods.”_

_An eerie tightness settled into Karstark’s belly. He shook it off. Ramsay was dangerous, but Southerners were the greater threat to the profit. Whatever Ramsay had planned would be better than watching a Stark sell her soul and the mafia to be in that fucking journalist’s pants. “Do what you will.”_

_Ramsay pulled the cigarette out from between his teeth. He dabbed the butt into the ash tray with more exuberance than was necessary. “Very well!” he snapped his fingers over his head. From the shadows of the tavern, a raggedy man slowly edged to the table. His hair was long, dark, but thin and scraggly. His clothes were barely rags. Even the homeless in Deepwood Motte looked as though they fared better than this poor bloke._

_“Yes, Master Bolton,” the man stammered. His hands shook at his side._

_Ramsay grinned sadistically at the man. “I’ve got a surprise for you, Reek! Would you like to meet an old friend?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I began writing this story nearly a year and a half ago (can't believe it's been that long!) I imagined it being a six chapter, crackish fic based on a prompt sent by a friend. I had no inkling it would turn into this behemoth, but I will be forever thankful for the direction it took on and the paths I have crossed thanks to it. I want to thank each of you who have made it this far and hope you're satisfied with this "conclusion". None of this would be possible without you or your kind comments of encouragement/trolling.


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